


A Matter of Perspective

by cultureandseptember



Series: A Matter of ... Series [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 03:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 49,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultureandseptember/pseuds/cultureandseptember
Summary: A series of drabbles and one-shots from the "A Matter of" series. Possible romance in some entries; others are pure history. Exploring the possibilities inside and outside of canon. [OC, historically-accurate].





	1. Pride

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” John muttered. I shifted a little in my chair, glancing over toward his slouched figure in the doorway. His shoulders were curved forward and there was an obvious weight resting upon them, the weight of centuries. Two hundred some-odd years of pressure and it almost felt as if he was crumbling in front of me. I could feel his walls being removed each passing day, bit by laborious bit. He was slowly, but surely, coming to trust me unlike any other. He confided in me things that I believed wholeheartedly that he had told no other living being—mortal or immortal.  _This_  was one of those impossibly private things. “I was young. We all were. I don’t think we realized what we were doing until too late. That’s the thing with America and the rest of us. We…get a little ahead of ourselves. We don’t think of the consequences.”

Glancing back down to the small wooden carving that rested in my palm, I tried to maintain an easy fascade. Inside, I felt my heart breaking. There was so much guilt in his tone, so much regret. I watched as he fiddled with the rim of his fedora, giving me a look under his lashes. “Who gave you this, Johnny?”

“Iroquois. She gave it to me when our group visited her and the other Tribal Nations for negotiations. Probably around September 1755 or so. I can’t remember anymore. It was a long time ago.” Johnny let out sigh and ran his free hand over his head, moving to sit on the couch. The low mumbles of the radio filled the silence as he stared to the floor. He sat his hat on the nearby cushions and set to lacing his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees. “I went with Sir William Johnson. You know him?” My head shook, eyes never leaving his dark expression. “He was a good guy, meant well. Most of the time. Ended up running Indian Affairs for a while until that all fell to hell. You know, things with the Tribal Nations…They always tends to fall to hell. Ultimately, the Covenant Chain (1) was broken and…well, you know what eventually happened.”

“You…” I trailed off, note quite sure what to say. How could I comfort someone I didn’t understand? No matter how much time I had already spent in the past, in Hetalia, I could never come to understand the depth of their experiences. Maybe there was no way to comfort him. Instead, maybe it was just a matter of showing openness and compassion, rather than blind negativity. My head merely nodded and I offered no words, pressing my lips together. John shook his head, tightening his fingers until they were white.

“It gets really irritating, ya know?” Green eyes flickered up to me and he grimaced. “It’s really irritating because  _every time_  something good and amazing happens, two terrible things happen just after that. I just get so sick of it.” He looked down, shaking his head. “Sick of myself. Sick of everyone. To see people suffer like that and to know that there is not a damn thing you can do to stop it…When you know that they’re doomed, but you have no control over it. Michelle, I  _knew_  that Iroquois was going to lose her home. I knew she was going to lose a lot of her people. I knew it because some part of me, a  _large_  part of me, was—and somehow still is—willing to do anything for her land. I’d even destroy her to get it. And that part of me, it’s just under the surface. It’s bloodthirsty.”

He reached to the side and grabbed a newspaper, tossing it to the ground at my feet. The headline was haunting. Rumors of bombings and fallen governments. Naples was just bombed to hell and back. Albania had come under Greek control, but that wouldn’t last long and everyone knew it. Berlin was suffering the blasts of the retaliating British forces. The Blitz was in full swing.

I sat in silence, staring at my friend as he glared down at his white-knuckled hands. It was the first time he had ever confided in me. The first time that New York gave me some intimate part of himself, his trust. And yet I didn’t know what to say. How does one respond to that kind of pain?

“Isn’t that the same as always though?” He turned to look at me, clearly surprised that I had said anything. Normally, I kept my composure and kept quiet. This time, I knew that I couldn’t. “Aren’t all Nations bloodthirsty to a degree? If you are your people, and a portion of your people wants war, then you in some strange capacity, must want it as well.” His mouth opened, but I spoke before he could respond. “By that same token, you’re capable of kindness and peace. It’s that saying that there is both light and dark in all of us. You can’t just write yourself off as some monster when you’re so much more than that.”

Johnny—New York—stared at me for a few long moments, almost as if waiting to see if I had some other point to make. Or like he was waiting for the punch line of some great joke. One never came and he slumped, a snorted laugh seeming to ease the tension of the room. “Somebody else told me that once. Said that I couldn’t be blamed for the actions of my people.” He shrugged. “Teddy always was honest with me about things. Maybe you can be honest with me too…from now on. Call me on my shit. Tell me when I’m being too dramatic.”

Smiling slightly, I nodded my head. It seemed like something had shifted again in our relationship. He trusted me with his guilt, something that it seemed Nations and States carried with them like a ball and chain, always weighing them down.  It was the start of our time as family.


	2. Doushenka

You’re lonely, aren’t you?”  His head snapped around and he stared. It was unsettling. His was such an emotionless gaze that I felt myself growing even more nervous. For a moment, I considered my actions. Was I crazy to attempt this? Probably. Was I going to regret it? Most likely. Was I going to do it anyway? Yes. “I know you could kill me in a heartbeat,” I said. Russia continued to stare, obviously nonplussed by my straightforward approach. “You’re in pain, right? You’ve suffered the heaviest losses of anyone. Millions, at least.”

“I do not know to what you are referring, comrade. I am fine. Not having the problem, da?” He tried to put on his cheerful mask, but it was chipping away. After a few seconds of fake smiling, he grimaced. His teeth were clenched and his hands formed into balled fists. One of his hands flattened over his abdomen, as if he were experiencing pain there. His eyes flickered to mine and he held my gaze steadily. “You know nothing, comrade.”

“I know that. I know I can never understand. I’m not even sure I  _want_  to understand. I just know that you were standing over here by yourself. Alone. Separated. Despite what most might think, you are a factor in this war and you have human emotions. You’re suffering just like the rest. Although you must listen to your leaders, you are the Nation of Russia—one of the strongest Nations in the world. I decided it was best  _not_  to ignore you.”

“In self-interest?” He looked down on me with emotionless eyes.

Heh. It was funny how he always assumed the worst of people. Perhaps it was a repercussion of all the many times he had been betrayed.

“No,” I shrugged, “in  _your_  interest. I’m already pretty good friends with America and Britain. I don’t necessarily need to make a new friend. Especially not another _Nation_  friend. They provide me with enough problems, Alfred and Arthur do.. You, however, looked like you could use a friend. Just a friend. So, I came over.”

His violet eyes widened just a bit, “A friend?”

“Da,” I nodded. “A friend.”

* * *

“Is it safe?” The normally quiet Russia questioned. I could feel his hand tighten on my shoulder. With a reassuring pat to his fingers, I turned to face America. The flash of anger in his eyes at Russia’s closeness was nothing short of frightening. Already, the Cold War was brewing. It was there in the way Alfred was shifting his posture into a more defensive stance. His arms crossed over his chest when Russia questioned: “She will not be harmed?”

“Nah, dude! Do you really think I’d put her in danger like that?”

Russia’s grip grew tighter and I tried not to wince. “I do not know, comrade. Perhaps we should test on  _you_  first.”

* * *

Despite what most might have believed, Ivan was a very good man. I draw a difference here. There was a difference between the Nation and the man. The Nation named Russia was quietly confident, extraordinarily powerful, sometimes terribly cruel, and often extremely threatening. The Nation was everything that the world had grown to fear. Ivan—the man— was a gentleman by almost every sense of the word. He was chivalrous and kind and loving. It was perhaps the strangest characterization I had come across in my time in Hetalia. There were times, far more times than I was willing to admit, when I would see both sides merge. There would be a terrible light in his eyes (almost an evil purple glow) while a gentle smile would play on his face.

“Ivan,” I glanced curiously toward where he was sitting. His eyes turned to me and a soft smile came to his lips. For some odd reason, my heart started to beat a little faster than before. And I truly hoped it was just a fluke. “Why is that?”

His expression didn’t change, “Why is what,  _doushenka_?”

I still didn’t know what the endearment actually meant. Some part of me didn’t want to know. “You are two different people,” I answered. He sat upright and stared at me, eyes now wide. The smile had slipped away. Nervously, I continued to seek out the reasoning. “You are so kind at times and yet so…”

“Cruel?” Russia asked with a tilt of his head. “Ah, little Michelle. You are so innocent.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I warned.


	3. Fear

**Fear**

No one ever really  _wants_  to hear the answer. His current interviewer certainly didn’t want to ask the question. Even she—a practiced researcher— didn’t want to know something so personal. She didn’t want to know what kept someone like him up at night. It was a fair enough anxiety. No one ever wants to know another’s truest fears. With all the dirty dealings and crime in which he was involved, it would seem only too obvious for someone to be nervous about asking questions of a dark nature.

Then again, of course, there was the all-too-understandable apprehension of  _knowing_. Knowing the answer was different from guessing.  Knowing was a deeper sort of understanding that most people didn’t want. He knew that better than most. Sometimes, it’s way better not ask questions. You go your way and I’ll go mine. Your business is your business, capiche?

This was different though. It was so much different. This interview was nothing like the others. The woman was no newspaper report and certainly not a government agent sent to assess his mental stability. No, she was a trained “ethnographer.” Hell, Arizona and New Mexico knew more on the subject than he did. This woman—he never really bothered to learn her name—was writing a book about her time among the Nations and States,  a write up about a group of people (beings, depending on what political group you were talking to). She wasn’t really afraid to ask the wrong questions. That much was clear when she asked about his sex life. No fear in this one.

Still, she was obviously anxious about this upcoming question. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and her meaty hands quivered ever so slightly. “New—New York, what…This might seem like a prying question—”

“You asked me if I ever had sexual relations with Marilyn Monroe. This  _can’t_ be worse than that.”

The answer to that question was a regrettable ‘no’ followed by a rant that lasted thirty minutes that detailed the wrong perception of the deceased movie star. By the end of it, the mousy ethnography lady was begging for forgiveness. He saw fit to cross his arms and play hard to convince.

It was always fun to make people beg for forgiveness.

He held grudges like no other.

(Thomas William Jones Morgan [Tennessee] was a hardcore raging douchebag and no one could tell him otherwise. Sure the Civil War was long over, but some tensions would never go away.)

New York shifted, running a hand through his blond hair. The woman made a few scribbles in her little notepad, scratching at the back of her neck absentmindedly. “So, your question?”

“Right, sorry. Uh—What is it…that you fear most?” Even if she didn’t want to ask it, she had done so anyway. His eyes widened just a bit, mouth dropping open.

It was a brazen question. No one ever wanted to know the answer. No one ever wants to see that kind of weakness in their own nation—or that kind of darkness. Still, he had to give the woman some credit; she wasn’t backing down or recanting her inquiry. Now that she had spoken it aloud, she was determined to see it through. She just sat there and awaited his answer, hazel eyes glancing toward the voice recorder every other second. She was nervous though. She still didn’t want to know the answer.

“Spiders,” he responded flippantly with a wave of his hand. “Next.”

“ _Spiders_?”

He looked at her and then turned his face away to look out of the window. The skyline of Manhattan was partially visible. His eyes closed for a single moment and he took a deep breath. “Are you asking me as a man or as a State, huh? ‘Cause the answers are totally different, ya know.” New York shifted a little and leaned his head back, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “To be forgotten and to forget.” His eyebrow rose at her silence and he sat up again. “You’re surprised I didn’t say something like planes or terrorists, right?”

“I…Yes. I mean, it seems like the obvious answer.”

His head shook. “You’re thinking on a very literal level. A very human level.  _I_ fear the day when I will be left from memory. I fear the day when those memories are forgotten. When even new generations replace the new generations. I’m scared that one day everyone will forget it, me, and themselves. Interpret that however you want. I don’t want…to disappear.” He tried to ignore the way the pen was scratching madly against the paper. “You gotta get better at understanding the way Nations and States think, doll. Your rookie is showing and its gonna embarrass Oregon when the time comes.”

The researcher sat back, seeming stunned at his bluntness. And he was nothing if not blunt. “Are you saying that my inexperience will embarrass my home State?” He could hear the offended tone coming out clear as day. Smirking, John Jay Jones sat back and enjoyed his handiwork. It was successful at least. He had redirected her attention away from that unfair and –frankly— _stupid_ question. “Mary is very proud of—”

“If she knew the questions you were asking, sweet cheeks, Oregon would cringe and run away in shame.” Reaching forward to grab the coffee cup on the table, New York gave a vague gesture for the next question. “C’mon then, lady, I don’t have all day.”

* * *

 

**Love.**

“What or who do you love most?”

The question collided with his ears like a runaway freight train. It seemed like something so personal and so deeply thoughtful that he could throw up. But he wasn’t going to. No, instead he was going to give this researcher exactly what she wanted. She wanted a juicy tale to put in her book, right? She wanted the deep dark secret lives of the United States? She wanted to hear about lost loves and tales of passionate nights? He couldn’t really understand  _why_  he was so damn irritated by the question. What  _did_  he love most? What kind of a dumbass question was that anyway? Leave it to Oregon to breed a woman with so little regard for boundaries.

Stupid Northwest Hippy.

“Where are you picking these questions, doll? A Facebook quiz? Cosmopolitan?” The woman pursed her lips and looked away, rosy cheeks becoming even rosier. “Fine. You know what? I don’t know that. I don’t know the answer. Do you know what that’s like? I love a ton of different things. Are you asking  _who_  I love? I love my family and my people. Even the tourists that show up with their fanny packs. I love pizza. I love open fire hydrants. And cheese cake. I love the morning light off the fire escapes. I love the nights in Bennett Park blasting Big Punk tapes. I love classical music and indie rock and rap. I   _love_. I love people. And things. And places. I love myself.” He controlled his voice back down into a subdued tone, just a hint of sarcasm in it. “These questions are dumb, lady. You’re wasting your time with ‘em.”

* * *

  **Loss.**

 “You really want to know what I’ve lost?” New York had never been more dumbfounded. Of course it stood to reason that he had lost quite a bit over the years. Anyone with near immortality stands to lose something over the passage of time. “Everything and nothing.”


	4. Gone

America had long known that one phone call could change the world. He’d witnessed it several times. One call to stop a war. One call to start one. Seemed like every time something happened, a call was short to follow. When the towers fell, he got a phone call. When the war started and ended, he got phone calls. It always seemed like those calls came at inconvenient times, times when he knew that the phone call was anything but ordinary. Eight forty in the morning. He hadn’t even been awake yet. Eleven thirty at night, he had just gone to sleep. His cell phone would ring annoyingly and his stomach would flip…because the worst calls came at the times when they’re least expected.

So when he heard his phone ringing, he  _knew_.

For several moments, he just stared at the vibrating phone. The screen was alight and he could see a picture, an old picture from years and years before. A sick feeling flooded his stomach, his throat seeming to close up. It was getting harder and harder to breath. He could barely hear the others in the room, hearing tunneling down to the sound of his ratting phone on the tabletop.

Beside him, he could feel Arthur tense a bit. America was certain: Britain knew what this meant. There was no other reason for New York to call during a world meeting. He knew better, unless it was an emergency. Unless…

Quivering, he reached forward and grabbed the phone, sliding his shaking fingers across the screen. His eyes shifted, focusing on the man across the table. Canada’s expression was grim, lips pressed into a thin line.

Raising the phone to his ear, he croaked out an uncertain: “Hello?”

“A-Al…”

His heart seemed to sputter to a stop, hands going numb. The way John said his name, like a prayer. He sounded like a lost child. John never cried, never really lost his composure. He didn’t want to believe it. Not yet. It was too soon. Not yet. “Wh-What’s up, NY? You got Shelly there? Put her on the phone, would ya? He felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, but he ignored it. New York wasn’t answering him. “John, put Shells on the phone.” Still no response. “P-Put Shelly on the phone, Johnny.” Tears were welling in his eyes and he could feel the attention of the entire world resting upon him. “John—Johnny…New York, l-let me talk to Michelle.”

There was a moment of silence and he could hear it. He could hear the crying in the background. Something inside of him snapped and he surged to his feet. He could feel Britain doing the same at his side and he could already sense Canada running around the table. The sobbing in the background continued, growing more and more desperate. America fisted his right hand so tightly that it began to hurt. Everything was starting to hurt. His chest was hurting.

“Who is that? John, who is that? Who’s crying? If you made Shelly cry, I swear—”

“Shelly…”

“No,” America responded immediately. He didn’t want to hear it. His feet began to move of their own accord. He knew…He knew he should have stayed. She told him to go, to go to the meeting. She said that she would wait until he got home. She promised him. He was sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him. He could barely breathe. Not another one. Not her. Not yet. “You tell her to wait! You tell her to wait, New York! She has to wait! She’s patient as hell! She can wait!”

“America—”

When he arrived outside, the cars were nowhere to be seen. They weren’t due back for another three hours at least. Though he was unconscious of them, tears were already covering his cheeks. He looked around frantically, spinning in every direction. He looked lost, desperate. And the sobbing on the phone wasn’t making his mind any clearer. Panic began to grow in his chest. “Tell her to wait, New York. Wait on me! I c-can make it! I’ll be there—I have to be there. I’m supposed be there. I—I’m…I’m…I’m—”

“Al—Al, she’s…Michelle has—”

“No,” America stated. His voice shook. “Don’t tell me that, J-John. I c-can’t—”

“…p-passed away—Oh God.” He could hear New York’s cries, more anguished and terrified and mournful than he had ever heard before. America stopped, going still in front of the flag poles outside of the UN Annex. He turned just slightly, looking for something, anything, anyone. Solid, something to hold onto. His frantic eyes looked about until he saw the group of people running toward him. Arthur. Matt. Francis. Others. Many others. His legs began to shake. “She’s…She’s g-gone.” Alfred felt his knees go weak and suddenly, he was on his knees in front of the whole world. “Michelle… has… passed away.” He dropped the phone, put his face into his hands, and cried.

She was eighty-four years old.


	5. Not Scared

“Just as…beautiful as I remember it.”

Her murmured words still echoed in his mind. Sucking in a breath, he looked to his right. That chair was where she always sat, beside him. He shifted, glancing behind the chair and toward the breeze-blown white curtains that hung in the doorway. The air was dry and hot, sun bearing down on his skin. Letting out a breath, his eyes closed and he let his mind wander. No matter how hard he tried to think of other things, of other people, of other times. He kept returning to those final moments. Moments that she spent with him. Just him. He could still feel the warmth of her in his arms.

“I’m not…scared, you know.”

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the way his chest was aching. He needed to breathe, keep his composure. Stay strong. That’s what she would want. His eyes squeezed shut. Still he could see everything, feel everything. There was no escaping it. He could still see her eyes widening a bit. Her eyes would haunt him forever. Until the world burned.

“I always loved it here,” she told him. “Always felt safest with you.” He could remember tightening his hold on her thin body. She had been eaten alive by the cancer. It had consumed her almost entirely, the radiation chiseling away at her body and soul. She was too thin, too tired. Far too tired. She couldn’t leave him like this. "It’s…not long now.“ In the present, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together, opening his eyes to stare at the floor.

"Do you regret it?”

“Wh-What?” She questioned weakly. “My–My life here?” He didn’t respond, carefully counting her breaths and the beats of her heart. Her voice was growing lighter and lighter. He could  _feel_  her fading. She was growing weak. Not long. He couldn’t breathe. “I…regret nothing.” Her head leaned over onto his shoulder and, for the first time since he was a little boy, he felt a tear slip down his cheek. “I…regret nothing.”

“Michelle, I–”

“I love you,” she whispered. “I l-love…” He held his breath, watching as the sun began to set over the horizon. He couldn’t find the strength to respond. His limbs seemed to go numb. Everything seemed to become numb and distant. It was difficult to keep his composure as her breathing slowed and slowed and slowed. Her grip on his hand loosened and–

He sat for a very long time, not moving. It took a very long time before the reality of it hit him. She was gone. She was gone. Michelle was gone. Fear and grief struck him, hitting his stomach. His free hand came up to cup over his mouth, keeping the sobs quiet. No one could hear him lose his composure. The strength with which he held himself together was coiling in his chest. She was gone. It was sickening. 

The sun had long set over the horizon when he heard footsteps in the doorway. By then, his tears had been dried by the wind. She was still lying in his arms, growing colder and colder. “Michelle Daniels has passed…from our world.” His voice had been calm, subdued, careful.

As always. As he had always been.

He could still remember the way America had dropped to his knees beside her dead body. How he yelled and yelled, calling Egypt selfish for not summoning the other Nations when she had her last moments. They had been in the kitchen then and Egypt couldn’t refute America’s anger. Still, Egypt knew. She would have wanted nothing else. In all the years he had known her, some part of him knew it would end like this.

For the first time in his long life, as he sat on that balcony watching the sun set weeks after her death, he wished for something. Something he swore to his mother that he would never desire.

Seeing Michelle’s face in his mind and hearing her voice in the breeze, Egypt wished to be mortal.

She was thirty-one years old.  


	6. Habit

There is a burning, swelling pit in his stomach. Everything is quiet as he sits in that deserted room, head in his hands. It is inescapable, consuming—the grief. It isn’t pain. No, pain would be merciful. It would be better. The grief is sickening though. It is a sort of nauseous hollow prison that he can’t seem to— No matter how much he tries to think of other things, his mind keeps returning to the last phone call. The last time he spoke to her and the sound of her voice. She’d been so happy, so full of life. Then.

It had been a routine. For ten years, it had remained exactly the same. Michelle would call him on her way home from work. Ten in the morning for him, a space between meetings. Six at night for her, the roadways a bland thought at the back of her mind. Each day, every day. For ten years. She would speak of everything from her job to international affairs to family to…Everything. She trusted him. Not more than Egypt. It was hard to beat that man for her trust, but Russia settled for second. At least he beat America and that was something of which he was proud. Michelle is his…was his best friend.

His throat seems to constrict and he feels the heat building behind his eyes. He is strong enough to keep them at bay, those tears, but he can do nothing about the searing regret and remorse he feels in nearly every fiber of his body. It’s choking him. He doubts that the emotions would ever go away. For the others, the loss and pain still haunt him. And he has lost so many. Perhaps the emotions will one day fade, as they always do. They will never disappear though. Russia knows that he will never be free of his guilt.

She didn’t call.

And he thought then:  _Well, she must be busy_.  _They are opening that new exhibit soon._  

It happened every once and a while. She would be too distracted by something professional and she would delay her call. He had paid it no mind at the time. In fact, he was actually pleased: he was busy as well with the upcoming Olympics in Moscow.  Besides, she always talked longer whenever they had a missed call. Ivan had never claimed innocence regarding Michelle: he was jealous for her attention. The longer she would speak to him, the more human he felt.

He had told her so once and had been met with: “You are human, too, Ivan. Don’t forget that.”

Russia raises his head and looks toward the table where his cellphone lay. He suddenly wants to throw it, to destroy it. She won’t be calling again. Never again. The sick feeling became almost unbearable. He should have known then. He should have sensed it, known somehow. He should have kept his phone turned on during that meeting. He should have been there. He should have…He should have done so many things.

He struggles to stand, legs feeling weak. He couldn’t seem to force himself to eat. Even if he knew that she would tell him otherwise, he can’t seem to pull himself out of the darkness. With slow, deliberate movements, he stumbles to the fireplace. On the mantle, a picture sits with two smiling people in dress garb.

He closes his eyes tight and remembers America’s sobs. There had been forty-seven missed calls. Most from America’s cell number. Not one from Michelle.

“Russia…There…There was an accident. It’s Michelle.” Russia’s eyes open and he stares at the picture from her wedding. It’s the same picture that he keeps on his phone. The same one that always used to appear whenever she would call. In a rash action, he picks up the picture and hurls it across the room. Breathing heavily, he rests his hands on the mantle and leans forward, head falling forward.

And he realizes:  _he can’t do this_.

Russia is the only Nation that doesn’t attend her funeral. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough and he can’t allow himself to be weak in front of the others. Russia mourns in silence, alone.

To this day, he listens to an old voicemail.

Just so that he doesn’t forget her voice.

“Hey, Ivan! Just calling to check in. I saw that you texted me last night. Sorry. I was actually working on a restoration piece. Give me a call back when you can. I should be able to answer. Anyway. Love you and I hope everything is going well with the Olympic-prep. Bye!”

Russia still calls her phone out of habit.

She never answers.


	7. Rubble

The world was on fire. London was smoldering. Moscow was just gone…Paris…Oh, Paris. Not a single person left the city limits alive. It was the end of the world as all knew it. As she knew it. She was one of the last humans to ever see the skyline of the United States capital. Washington, D.C. was one of the last to be decimated, one of the last to fall. Already, New York had been burned into dust along with his millions of citizens. Delaware and the other northern States had disappeared. Some took refuge in Canada’s lands, avoiding humans wherever possible. Thomas—Tennessee—was trying his best to survive, taking her family to a refuge in the Appalachian mountains.

And Alfred…

She was always sickened by the way he tried to remain strong, despite his losses. It was inspiring, as he meant it to be, but it was enough to make her sick. He was pushing himself too hard. Most times, he was still determinedly pressing his way through the throngs of soldiers who protected him, fighting to help those that needed him most. Once or twice, he had escaped protective custody and made his way to the triage shelters. The radioactivity couldn’t kill him.

No matter how strong he seemed to others, there were moments when his façade of strength would shatter. One of those moments was when the Apaches arrived to evacuate the last remaining members of the resistance. Michelle stood at the back of the crowd, next to a young man with bruises all along his jaw. A leather jacket rested across his shoulders, worn and tattered.

“Don’t do anything. America, please don’t do anything dangerous.” She stared across the field as people filtered into the helicopters.

At her side, she saw him shift a bit and look up toward the heavy gray clouds overhead. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Shelly. Dangerous? Me?”

“I know that look, America.” She turned a bit on the heel of her standard-issue boots. “I know that look. You’re planning on something that’s completely batshit insane, aren’t you?” When he turned to look at her, she found her answer. Taking a deep breath, Michelle lowered her eyes to the brown grass beneath her feet. “Who’s staying with you?” Staying behind was a death sentence. No matter how immortal he was, it wouldn’t be long before America faltered.

“Just me,” he responded after a few moments. “That was the condition. They’ll stop the bombings if I just surrender.” When she started to object, he looked at her and gave a bright smile. “I’m meeting their delegation in at the Capitol building tomorrow morning. And then…I’m taking the bastards with me. Every single one of them.” Her mouth dropped open and America actually let out a loud laugh, catching the attention of the nearby humans. Their expressions were incredulous. After all, how could anyone laugh when the nation was on its way to ruin? How could anyone find humor when the free world was falling around them? Michelle felt tension in his chest and fought back a wave of nearly-overwhelming fear and sadness. Only America could laugh, only Alfred would laugh that hard. It was near hysterical. “They’ll regret the day they thought they could take me down without a damn fight.”

It was frightening, seeing him like that. He was obviously grief-stricken, frantic, distraught, and…excited. She could see that light in his blue eyes, however dull they might’ve seemed to others. There was a light there, a cruel light that wanted to watch the rest of the world  _burn_.

“What are you planning?” Her voice seemed distant. “America…”

He turned to her and smiled, the frenzied light leaving for a moment. In the next moment, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Take the next Apache and get the hell out of here, Shells. You’ve stayed with me as long as you can. Get to Canadia, put that brain to good use. Beat the hell out of these cowards. For me.” When he pulled away, Michelle nodded her head and reached up to rest a hand on his cheek. Once, it had been smooth with youth. Now, stubble ran along his skin. War-torn, haggard. This was the end. “Gotta catch up with Arthur, ya know? I bet he’ll give me hell for being late.”

With a push, he made her stumble toward the helicopter. A nearby soldier hooked an arm around her waist and lugged her toward the final chance for survival. Her instincts seemed to activate and she began to struggle, images flashing in her mind of America bleeding on the floor of a concrete bunker. Now, he stood on the other side of the field with a calm look of acceptance on his face. His hand rose and waved, a smile pulling at his face. She was pulled into the Apache, her scream pulling at the heartstrings of all those who were the last to leave that once-great city.

“AMERICA!”

An unnamed soldier held her as the door slammed shut, telling her over and over that she would see him again. That they all would see him again.

The United States of America fell six hours later.

* * *

She watched the television, hearing the panic in the voices of those nearby. At her side, Matthew was trying desperately to keep his composure. She could feel him shaking, quivering at the sheer magnitude of the destruction. He was still bleeding from his arm, the destruction of Montreal still fresh. The screen was alight with the unbelievable sights— mushroom clouds, explosions, everything but the apocalypse. The headlines were haunting.

“Washington Falls, USA in Ruins.”

Tears never entered her eyes though, not once. Michelle had distanced herself from her emotions. Since the day that she had watched Alfred disappear under the weight of the dark rain-soaked clouds, she had not shed a tear. It was shredding her heart, tearing it apart. But she kept strong, as strong as she could, until she one day couldn’t any more. That day was fifty-three years after the resistance was victorious. Fifty-five years after she had left America in his doomed capital.

On that memorialized day, she visited the Monument of the Third World War and ran her gnarled fingers over the names of those who had been lost. So many. Too many. Finally, her fingertips rested upon the one name she seemed unable to reconcile to her memories. She heaved a breath and held it, listening to the whine of bagpipes in the distance.  _Alfred F. Jones._ Her old body seemed to lose its strength. She had been strong for too long. She sank down to her knees and cried until she couldn’t any longer.  

A hand came to rest on her shoulder and she raised her head, silvery hair falling into her eyes. She felt sick, just like the day when she left him behind. The sun temporarily blinded her, making it impossible to see the face of the young man. He leaned forward, hooked his arm under her hunched shoulders and hauled her to her feet. Her eyes trailed up from his tailored military-issue suit. Likely the guard on duty at the war memorial. Michelle tried to gather her emotions.

Her eyes continued upward, and it was then—in that breath-catching moment- that she saw the glasses that sat over his bright blue eyes.  


	8. Swing

The book sat in my lap, but I couldn’t see it. I was staring at the pages without seeing words. Just blurred lines and paper painted orange by the setting sun. My legs were folded underneath me, blue skirt tucked up under my knees. My shoes lay forgotten at the end of the sofa, patent-leather scuffed and worn from months of city walking. It’d been a particularly difficult week. The kids in my class were getting restless. Goodness, everyone was restless. The war was growing worse and worse. More and more countries were falling the Germany, and with each new fallen nation, a new nightmare introduced me to the horrors they would experience. I couldn’t sleep well, especially after Churchill’s desperate pleas. “Give us the tools,” he said, “and we will finish the job.” Only I was withholding the tools and the solution would never be that simple.

Alfred was in Washington with several States in attendance to support the Lend-Lease legislation, his bid to support the Allies. New York had gone to lend his aid. It was the least he could do. With his absence, the Brooklyn townhome was silent and cavernous. In that stillness, it was easy to get lost. It was easy to think about everything—the war, the blood, my family. It was easy to lose myself to it.

The sudden trill of a clarinet made my heart nearly jump from my chest as I whirled around toward the radio. Johnny lifted his hand from the dial and let out an amused laugh at my surprise, a bright smile lit up his face. “Where were you at, doll face? I’ve been talking for a couple minutes now…”

Pressing my cool fingers to my forehead, I let out a sigh and relaxed into the sofa cushions. My other hand passed my chest, heart still thundering within at his sudden appearance. “I was—” thinking about death and destruction and loneliness? “—thinking about lesson plans.” It was perhaps one of the lamest excuses I had ever made, but I didn’t bother to recant it.

John shifted, a smile still on his face. His eyes though, they became critical and seemed to examine the downturn of my lips and the tiredness of my eyes. “Lend-Lease passed,” he said after a minute. I shifted slightly, expecting as much. Lend-Lease was a key part of the war and there was no influence to stop it from passing. Of course it went through. Nevertheless, I gave him a slight smile and nodded my head. “Hopefully, it can help them out. Arthur came to plead his case. That was probably one of his strongest rhetorical moves in years, if I’m honest.” His shoulders shrugged and he sighed, pulling himself out of his coat. “You’re lookin’ pale again. Have you been eating?”

“Yes, I have.” I looked back to the book and sighed. I started trying to read hours ago and only made it a few scant pages. Trying to hide my frustration, I fiddled with the edge of a page. I could sense him behind me, and I was certain he was watching me. I didn’t know what to do. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes, everything was alright. My eyes slipped closed and I let out a breath.

The music suddenly got louder (trumpets catcalling and the whirring trombones lilting out a tune). I nearly jumped out of my skin. Hours of solemn quiet halted the moment New York walked in the door. This was why it felt so—

Johnny was standing in front of me—a wide smile breaking on his face. I could practically see the lights of the city in his eyes with the way they were twinkling. “Dance with me, Michelle.” I leaned back to look up at him, surprised by how tall he seemed. His jacket was long gone and his tie was loosened. His hat was still in place though and it gave him an almost rugged appearance. For a moment, I considered what he had just said and then my head shook. Dancing? I hadn’t danced since—Before I could say a word of protest, he had grabbed my right hand and lugged me up. My legs tingled with the new position. “Loosen  _up_. This is Glenn! You love Glenn!” His feet moved in practiced time to the beat, fancy footowork that only those versed in the style could accomplish. After a moment, he grabbed his hat and flicked it onto a nearby table. “C’mon, you gotta  _move_ for it to be a dance, doll face.“

“I can’t—”

“Can’t or won’t…still won’t get you out of it!” He continued to move, feet swiveling. He pulled at my arms, forcing me to make a step to avoid crashing to the floor. The song moved out of the first few bars, and the swirling notes of that all-too-familiar song jumped around the living room, bouncing off the walls as he pulled me to his chest with a bright and ringing laugh, and expertly twirled me around. Despite myself, I let out a laugh. New York seemed energized by it all, his chest seeming to vibrate under my hands. “That’s it, Shelly! Dance with me!” Smiling ruefully, I knew there was no going against him once he had his mind set on something.

My feet began to move and I started to sway. Johnny caught the actions with an eagle eye and gave a gleeful whoop, catching both of my hands in his. He pulled me to him again, keeping our bodies together as he tilted us down toward our conjoined hands every few beats. We twisted, turned, spun. I felt my chest become lighter and my smile become freer. I let out a laugh, pressing my forehead into his shoulder for a single moment before he swung me out and I twisted with the beat of the wailing trombones. I laughed harder than I had in months. The trumpets whirred. My hand remained in his and we collided again moments later, twirling this way and that. Everything felt warm and I felt  _alive_.

It was in that moment with his laughter and the music that I forgot, just for a few minutes,  _everything else_. There was nothing– no alternate worlds, no loneliness, no time, no Nations, no States, no impeding doom. No war. Nothing. 

There was just Johnny, me, and Glenn Miller.


	9. Bigger Game

When we had our first fight, he didn’t bring me flowers. I didn’t expect him to, you know. I never expected flowers from a man that had never purchased flowers in his life. I didn’t expect anything from him when he returned home to our tiny apartment. Instead, I just kept my attention focused on the computer screen and made a subtle show of my intense focus by narrowing my eyes as if something confused me. In truth, I wasn’t reading the screen. Instead, I was focusing on the way he lingered in the doorway. He stood there for five, ten, twenty seconds and I found my gaze blurring as I continued to stare. I was unwilling to bend on the issue we had argued about—whether or not I would contribute to the rent payment with my pay from the university. He was so stubborn, so unwilling to bend on that single topic. I knew that it related to a lot more than money.

After another few seconds, he stepped into the room and let out a sigh. I knew that sigh meant that he wanted me to look at him, but I held firm. I wanted to look at him though, more than anything.

“Michelle, please.”

Pressing my lips together, I lifted my eyes and looked in his direction. He looked just as torn as me, though others would likely say that he felt nothing. I could see it though. I could always see it. There was the slightest tenseness to his jaw and his shoulders were taught. And the flash in his eyes? I settled back into my chair and folded my hands over my stomach. “We agreed to split costs.”

“We did,” he agreed. Good, then what was the problem? He settled himself into a chair nearby, perching on the edge. With a slow movement, he pulled the white material from his head. The brown curls were mussed by his free hand and he let out another long-suffering sigh. My teeth gritted. I knew him well-enough to know what that sigh meant. “You do not know my motivations. You only see that I do not want you paying rent.”

“Enlighten me, Egypt.”

He averted his eyes, looking toward the window. I waited for his answer as patiently as I could, which amounted to the tapping of my right foot on the tiled floor. For a single moment, I wondered what would have happened if I had instead accepted Ivan’s invitation to live in Moscow or even Germany’s offer of a Berlin residence. The thought quickly passed because deep down I knew that I would not have gone anywhere but here. After a moment, he looked back to me and seemed to reach a decision. He sat straighter and then I saw a smile pull at his lips, just a tinge at the corners. I felt my stomach flutter a bit.

“I did not want to—Ah, nevermind. I just thought that we could begin saving money.”

My brows pulled together at his cryptic response. “Save money for…what, exactly?”

His smile tilted a bit and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “A home of our own.”

I choked on nothing, launching into a coughing fit. He didn’t move to do anything, simply watching from where he sat. Nervous energy flooded through me at the thought: a home of our own. What did he mean by that? Could he possibly…My head shook and then I stopped, noticing the distinct downturn in his lips. When I saw that, I struggled with a response. “Why…Why not stay at your—”

“Drenched in history neither of us would like to remember.”

I stared at him and realized that he was completely right. If we returned together to his home in Alexandria, then we would be entering into memories that were better left in the past. That was why he had allowed me to stay with him in his Cairo apartment, taking up the second bedroom. We had been bickering about the rent for months since I moved in. Now, after so long, he was asking that I—

“It has been a long time coming, I believe.” He stood, raising his hands in an indication of surrender. I knew him better than that though. He wasn’t the type to give in so easily, unless he had another plan behind it. It was on him though, truthfully. I knew where his game was headed, what plans he had. Perhaps that’s what made the fight all the more dramatic at the time. So he hadn’t returned home with flowers. As he sank down to one knee, I saw the larger plan he had laid out. An argument over rent had been started by his desire for a fresh start in a new home. That new home, he wanted—“On the house, we will split the costs. You cannot split the cost of this, Michelle.” He didn’t have the ring in a box, simply holding it out for me to take at my will. He didn’t even reach for my hand.

He didn’t have to.

“Or perhaps we can do a fair trade…Half of my heart for half of yours.”

My reaction wasn’t immediate. Far from it, actually. I took a few moments to think of the implications, to think of everything that could and would be. He clearly knew the costs. He’d known them since the day we met, since the very second that he took me in all those years ago during a raging war. He knew when we talked and talked and talked. He knew when…when everything fell apart. And he knew when he first said those words years ago. And I knew. I knew I wouldn’t have too long. Well, not long enough anyway. Still, Egypt held out a simple gold ring with a single diamond upon it. Knowing our limitations, he was offering me this anyway.

I didn’t cry. No, instead I just smiled and held out my right hand. “ _Seems like a fair trade_ ,” I said to him in Arabic. He smiled then, one of the clearest and most beautiful smiles I had ever seen on his face. The ring was slid onto my finger. With a laugh, I stood into his arms and pressed my face into his shoulder. The sound slightly muffled, I deflated a bit. “You’re telling America.” He actually let out a laugh. “You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.”

“It will be convenient then,” he responded. I pulled back and stared at him in confusion. “Since he is downstairs.” My jaw dropped. He shrugged and pulled away, running a hand through his hair. “It is payback and only fair.”

“Payback for what?” I incredulously followed him, stunned by the happiness that was radiating off of him in that moment. He was practically beaming, which really meant that there was a soft smile and a twinkle in his eyes as he ghosted through the corridor. “I didn’t do anything to deserve payback. Especially not America-payback.”

He stopped at the crest of the stairs, turning to me. “You told Sudan that I fear snakes.”

“You do.”

“At our last meeting, I awoke to snakes in my bed.” He turned and gave me a look over his shoulder. “Unless you wish to encounter the same, America is waiting for our announcement.”

Bigger game, indeed. 


	10. Memory

 “America thinks that your memory is returning.” Britain spoke these words so casually, it was as if he were commenting on the dimness of the room’s lighting or the lint on his blazer jacket. I peered at him over my book, pursing my lips. He shrugged his shoulders and then looked back down at the gun in his hands. “Honestly, he’d like a child. I hate being the bearer of bad news.” With the wistful tone in his voice, Alfred was still very much a child in his eyes. He probably saw what I could only catch glimpses of, the kid underneath the Nation. Arthur was only a few scant years older physically, but he had many thousand years on America. “You do know that you will never fully recover your memories, correct?”

I saw Matthew look up from his place at the table. He held a toothbrush and part of a gun in his hand. The Nations were militarizing themselves, preparing. Matt told me that it was better to be safe than sorry. “Let him keep hoping. It’s not so bad, is it?” Arthur shot him a look.

“You know that don’t you?” Britain’s attention turned back to me. “That it is likely your other memories will never return?”

“I know.” It was impossible to remember everything. The magic had only taken a few of my memories and those were the ones I had already regained. The rest was likely due to the blast. I still couldn’t recall what happened in that bunker and I suspected that I never would. Just flashes. Always flashes. “Head injuries are unpredictable. I’m still having some short-term memory issues. I figured it went without saying.” His head shook and I took that to indicate that it wasn’t so implied with America. “I appreciate the pragmatism. It’s best to be realistic. I’m not going to remember all of it.”

Right. Best to be realistic?

It was a contradiction and a half in my situation.

Magic globes, alternate universes, living nations?

Yes, let’s do remain realistic.

“You would have once called it pessimism, I believe.” Arthur responded lightly. He sat in the armchair a few feet away, folding one leg over the other. A grin pulled at his lips, bordering on a smirk. It looked entirely too self-satisfied for my tastes. “No, perhaps that’s not right. You were always level-headed. Frustratingly so. You’d probably think it best that those memories are gone and find some more practical conversation to be having, if I’m honest.”

“Is it just me or do you sound wistful?”

I gave him a critical look before letting out a huff and sitting back. My arms crossed over my chest as France meandered into the room.

“You’ve known from Step One that I would never regain all my memories.” Even then, I couldn’t really see him being regretful, or whatever tone was coloring his voice. It didn’t seem to fit with the memories I could recall. “You said that Norway did this to me, but I had severe head trauma on top of that. It’s a miracle I remember anything at all.” Really, that was all thanks to Egypt.

Averting my eyes to very random crease in the floor, I let my mind wander to the–


	11. Egypt

[ _A Matter of Course,_ Chapter 21]

“My buddy Egypt,” the man laughs, “you have never been the one for disguises. Spying was never your game.” In response, the African Nation merely shrugged his shoulders and looked out into the crowd. Sports jackets and knitted sweaters and gloved hands. Glasses. A poor disguise, but a needed one. There were a young people near the doorway with knapsacks and pillows. He wonders vaguely if Michelle might’ve taught those students in the other world, her home. It was neither here nor there, he supposed. What did that matter anymore? Idly, he sat his phone on the tabletop and tore his gaze away from the hotel’s busy lobby. The man across from him was watching, eyes alert and muscles tightened in expectation of something. “Geez. Come on, man. Give me something here. You’re silent as ever.”

“I need your help.”

There was a momentary pause when Egypt considered walking out, but he decided against it. No matter how badly he hated his current situation, he had to endure it. He was good at enduring. He’d endured plenty. He would endure more. Across from him, it seemed that realization was finally dawning. “Hold up.  _You’re_ asking  _me_  for help? Oh boy, what kind of trouble did you get yourself into this him, huh?” Egypt chose to remain silent, glancing back toward the students again. They were so energetic and excited, so young. Most of them were likely dead in that alternate reality. There, in fields and explosions. His guess was good for nothing though. “Did you get a human pregnant?”

Snapping back to attention, the African Nation gave a dull stare.  _Of course_  he would jump to that conclusion. A sick feeling entered the pit of his stomach. It was the  _least logical_  leap that could be made. Attempting not to roll his eyes, Egypt instead shook his head and gave a tired sigh. “No, that is not the problem.” Before Turkey could argue, he held up a hand. “Norway, Denmark, Iceland, Belgium,  _and_  Romania have been abducted. Additionally, two of America’s States. There is much unrest coming.” He tapped a finger on his cellphone and checked the time. “Two magical Nations.”

“I know that,” Sadik waved off the information. 

“A third is at risk.”

“What’s your  _point_ , Egypt? You gonna save them or something? You’ve never been the heroic, ya know?”

Egypt’s head shook slowly, deliberately, betraying no emotion. He’d never been a lot of things. He was selfish, preserving himself before all. So many lies. “They are of no concern to me.” At Turkey’s surprised expression, the younger Nation drew a breath and then sighed. With a sort of casual lethalness that he rarely showed, he leaned back and crossed on leg lazily over the other. His attention trailed upward, lips pursing in thought. How would he make Turkey understand? Did it matter if he did? “I do not care about the Nations. They’re pawns.”

Dark eyes narrowed in his direction and he felt the atmosphere shift, from the lightheartedness of a friendly meeting to the looming threat of a war council. The change was what he expected. What he needed. “Always have been, right?” Sadik let out a chuckle and sat back, crossing his arms over his burly chest. “Pawns. So, don’t care for the other Nations, huh? This got anything to do with the whole globe fiasco at the meeting? When all that crazy went down?” When Egypt didn’t answer, Sadik gave a nod of affirmation. “You figure something out then? O’ course you did. You wouldn’t come to me otherwise.”

Egypt’s phone buzzed and his reflex was as quick as any trained Nation. He head snapped down from where he had been staring and his fingers were immediately dancing across the screen. _Trust me._ Something in him snapped into place when he read her response. He didn’t have time for this. “Nevermind. I can do it alone.” Egypt stated as he tucked the phone into his pocket.

“Probably,” Turkey agreed as Egypt stood. “And what are you gonna do, huh?” There was a snort of laughter and Egypt tried not to let himself get irritated. He should have known better. He took his brown leather jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on, mind whirling through plans. He yanked his hat a little further down. “What? I was kidding! You’re not seriously thinking about doing something stupid, are you?” The look Egypt sent him was nothing less than his timeless dull-stare. The one that made even the wisest Nation feel like an ignorant child. “You’re joking. C’mon, Egypt!”

He wrapped an auburn scarf around his neck and turned on his heel, heading for the door. Turkey continued to call his name. There are others he could have contacted, should have contacted. Prussia. Austria, though that would be more difficult. Perhaps Hungary. Greece. Others, that would know the way. Perhaps more allies would be the safest route. Egypt’s eyes narrowed as he stepped out into the midday sun of Istanbul. His hands slipped into his jacket pockets as he turned to walk down the busy street. There was a flash. A corner of his mouth ticked up and mentally, he began to count backwards from three.

“Wait up, ya freakin’ jerk!”

If he wasn’t certain and determined before, he was now. He wouldn’t let this stand. 

He wouldn’t let her pay again. 


	12. Sealand

The door handle rattled for a moment before an unfamiliar person stepped into the room, earning my immediate attention. Unconsciously, I pulled the blanket a little tighter around my shoulders, trying to cover the violent bruises on my neck. He was young, too young to be even remotely close to this sort of dangerous situation—the age was something close to the kids who came to the museum on school field trips. When he looked over to me, I could see something oddly mature in his eyes. A Nation, I realized. Without wasting time, he crossed the room and threw out his hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Peter. You can call me Sealand, everybody does!”

Smiling slightly, if a bit uncertainly, I reached out to take his hand and allowed him to give it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Sealand.” He didn’t let go of my hand and I realized that he was waiting, wide smile firmly in place, for my name in return. “I’m Michelle.”

“I know that!” A flare of amusement made me give a puffed laugh through my nose as I sat back. He released my hand and twirled to point at the doorway. The baseball cap on his head and the white t-shirt seemed to make him look even younger. And there was…was something very familiar about his face-shape and hair. A mixture off Alfred and Arthur, I reasoned. No,  _of course_  I knew this. He had been in Hetalia. What was I thinking? My head shook almost imperceptibly. Of course I knew that. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here instead of one of those other jerks, right? It seems pretty strange they’d send someone young like me to see to you when they’re all just down the hall, huh?”

My brows rose at the obvious disdain in his voice, even under the chipperness of this tone. His arms immediately crossed over his chest and his brows pulled together in a scowl. Recognizing the look as one of Arthur’s indignant stares, I raised a hand in placation. “I’d be lying if I didn’t wonder why they sent you, Sealand.” His posture relaxed and his mouth opened without sound. My attention flickered to the doorway, noticing a familiar shoulder in the open space. It was clear that Finland was leaning on the jamb outside, giving him enough time to do whatever job he had been sent to accomplish. “So, why  _did_  they send you?”

He eyed me for a moment more before grinning, chinning rising with pride. “Actually, it was that jerk Arthur that sent me. Though, Sweden is the one that made sure I got here after the second attack. They wanted to make sure I was safe. With people disappearing left and right, it’s pretty much a madhouse out there.” Left and right? My attention flickered to the doorway, but Finland didn’t move. Sealand took a step forward. “They felt like I wouldn’t be threatening and that I could be a distraction from the terribleness of the overall situation!”

Well, I didn’t quite believe either of those reasons.

A little surprised by his summation, not to mention his chipper telling of it, I focused on him once more. “You’re… a distraction? For me.” Unwilling to laugh outright, I raised a hand and stifled the snort while my head shook. “Sorry. It’s a little juvenile of them to think that I’d be distracted like this. Or that I needed distraction at all. There’s definitely another reason.” I was torn between revealing Finland and letting Sealand continue his masquerade. “Maybe it’s because you’re mature enough to explain the situation yourself.”

Internally, I was heaving a breath. There was a reason I went into higher education. I was never the best at dealing with children. In fact, just being around children made me nervous for whatever reason—as if I would say the wrong thing or speak over their heads. I don’t know. I saw his eyes light up and I figured that I had said just the right thing. “That’s right! I’m a mature country just like the rest of them! I might be small, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less smart.” He maneuvered himself into the other chair at the table and swung his legs back and forth. “America said that Delaware has gone missing—said that there was only one reason he could think of. He said that they can’t find the real South Carolina, but I don’t know what he means by that!”

I knew that Delaware had been taken. Alfred had told me as much before I had taken a four hour nap. Now, with evening arrived, I was four hours behind the current events.

“That jerk Arthur said that there had to be someone feeding the bad guys information.”

Refocusing, I nodded my head in agreement. Canada seemed to think so as well, since he had given me the dagger again for protection. The only people in the whole complex seemed to be allies and another attack would be unadvisable. Shifting, I settled my hand onto the table near where the weapon rested. Sealand didn’t seem to notice, too involved in his rundown of current information.

“—realized that Norway has magic! Well, Finland has magic too right? I mean, it’s a different kind of magic, sure, but I mean…That makes sense. Why  _else_  would they go after Norway first? That guy doesn’t go around to bugger people off, right?” I watched stoically as the bright smile faded from his face and a scowl pulled at his thick brows. No matter how much he railed against it, Arthur was very much a relation. “And anyway, why would they go after Finland of all people?”

Finland’s voice popped into my mind.  _“If you thinking about it, what is a big similarity between me and Romania? Let’s not forget Norway.”_ Magic. Finland and Romania both are magical Nations. Even if Finland’s magic was more seasonally oriented, it was still magic. My teeth gritted, the pressure making my temples ache. So, they were going after magical Nations? That seemed to be the trend. Then, what was their purpose for a full-frontal attack on this complex and how did they know to attack? They had to figure the location and then time it in such a way that they’d be able to actually gain entrance into the complex before being headed off. That spoke much to the presence of an ally in our midst.

“What happened to your neck?”

It was an innocent enough question, but…Turning back to Sealand, I recognized the way his back had straightened and his jaw had set. Laughing a bit, I pulled the blanket up again, admonishing myself for not paying enough attention. He was still a child. He didn’t need to see that injury. With this though, the pieces were coming together. “You’re a lot like Arthur.”

To my surprise, that didn’t distract him. His small arms crossed over his lithe chest and he practically stamped his foot. It took a lot of effort not to laugh. “Don’t do that! I’m mature. And you’re clearly injured! Have they seen to it? Is there anything I can do? I can fight with the best of them!”

“You don’t know me,” I responded equally. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Finland round the corner into the room. “Looks like there’s another reason you’re here, Sealand. Want to explain?” Finland gave me a smile, obviously try not to be too terribly amused by Sealand’s squawk. “I’m flattered that you wanted to meet me, but you didn’t have to lie about it.”

His mouth opened, but it was Finland that responded as he placed a hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “He snuck out to meet you.“


	13. Michelle and Arthur

Considering where we had started, Michelle and I had reached something of an unspoken understanding. It’d slowly evolved through our experiences, I believe. After a while, I could read her. After a while, it became something different, something that frightened me. I noticed everything about her– the crinkle around her eyes when she smiled, the way her lips pursed when she disagreed. I was becoming increasingly distracted by the latter as she usually disagreed with something. Most often, her disagreements were aimed to get a rise out of me and I could hardly turn down such a challenge. After a while, I knew what was happening. After all, I am far from a fool. 

However, I was– and by all rights never have been– one to just let things lie. 

It was a Wednesday, a typical mid-week doldrum. She didn’t know I had hopped across the pond on an impulse. After all, where there is a will and all that. I knew that she would be at the museum (good heavens, practically the whole world knew the woman’s schedule). I arrived at a quarter to five. Not one single Nation knew where I was, and that was the better for it. If America knew my reason for this Nashville venture, he would have– well, I preferred not to think of what that loudmouth would do. Probably throw a car or something. 

“Arthur?” 

Oh, it was absolutely ridiculous. I was about to make an utter fool of myself. 

She stared at me, weight shifting to her good leg. Her brows pulled together as if she were working out the reasoning rather than asking outright. 

I straightened my back and cleared my throat, not quite sure how to approach the subject. Then, I felt the rush of fear that lurched through my stomach. I was a bloody Nation, not some teenage boy with a crush! Her lips pursed and I felt myself start forward only to stop myself just in the impulse. 

To hell with it. 

“Michelle.” 

“Arthur,” she returned. She looked doubtful now. “Why are you –”

“I think I am in love with you, and I’m terrified.” 

Well.

That was hardly as I planned it.

* * *

 

I knew how he felt. And that might’ve been the most devastating part of the whole mess. Every single time he looked at me nowadays, it was with a sort of stormy sadness–  flickers of hope and then a tempest of the reality. It was akin to hopelessness, but I didn’t dare think on it more than in passing. Mostly because my nerves couldn’t take it. I was trapped in the world of Hetalia, and the effects that was having on my general mentality were far from positive. And then there’s Arthur, with his quick wit and heated looks and charged glances. Every time I catch him looking my way (when he thinks all others are looking away), my stomach writhes into knots and I lose my breath a bit. 

Then, we’d been at dinner after one of their meetings. He had gotten up to leave just as I had. He offered me his arm, and took my hand as it rested in the crook. As a proper gentlemen, but all I could think of was how restless I felt. 

How nervous I felt. 

How my entire body seemed to be shaking. 

And I wondered if he felt the same way for me. 

Then, as I was getting into the cab outside of the restaurant, the hustle and bustle of New York’s crowds all around me, I caught that same intense gaze again. The gaze that seared and stirred and I knew. And I think he knew. We both knew. I got into the cab and let out a quivering breath. I couldn’t stop shaking, even after I arrived back at John’s apartment. I couldn’t seem to stop shaking because that moment was going through my mind over and over and over and over and over and over. 

When the next meeting came around, three month later. I was hesitant to enter the same room as him, only able to work up the courage after Alfred had questioned me directly. So I stepped into the small meeting room and I was felt my heart nearly beat right out of my chest – directly to him. And it was so irritating and so frightening and so electrifying that I just shakily stepped back and left the room. 

So, I sat in the lobby – as I usually did during meetings. I scratched my blue pen over the papers until the sunlight was suddenly blocked and I looked up. The next moment, I was was standing. And for a second, I didn’t quite know how I had been pulled to my feet so quickly. But there was Arthur and there I was. And there was no one else around and the tension was so coiled between us that I could barely breathe. 

“Just once,” he murmured before he closed the gap between us. “Just once,” he murmured again. “Just once,” and it seemed to become a prayer. Only thing was, I wanted ‘once’ to last forever.

* * *

 

The world was a bleary haze when I woke up. For a long while, I was in the misty space between waking and sleeping, blurred images moving this way and that in the dim light. After a while, I opened my eyes and I immediately squeezed them shut again. The last thing I remember, I was waiting for the Nations to conclude their meeting in the Annex. The next…I opened my eyes wider than necessary, hoping it would help me wake faster. It didn’t, and I let my eyes slip shut again. “You haven’t been eating properly.” 

I jolted at the voice, looking to my left. Arthur gave me a disgruntled frown, arms crossing over his chest. I sighed through my nose, letting my eyes shut again. I could feel it coming: a lecture. Proper eating practices and all that. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. How did he expect me to eat while so much was going on? What did that have to do with anything though?

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” 

I turned, but said nothing.

“You fainted…straight into my arms.” I didn’t remember that though. I’d just been standing in the hallway when– My mouth opened then snapped shut again. He shook his head sadly, moving up to sit on the edge of the chair. A bit of mirth made the corners of his eyes crinkle just so. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t need to go to such extremes.”

My jaw almost dropped, but I managed to stop it just as my lips parted. His lips curved into a wily grin. And, for a moment, I was just a little transfixed. I was just a little mesmerized. He seemed all too aware of it too as his smirk became downright predatory. I pursed my lips together, noticing the way his attention flickered down to them. “Who says I want your attention?”

He laughed lightly and sat back again, shrugging his shoulders. “Who wouldn’t?” 

I paused, considering my rejoinder. After a moment, I realized that the best response would be an unexpected one: “Well, if you had just been upfront about your feelings in the first place, Arthur. You forced my hand.” I pushed myself up to lean on the pillows and grinned, enjoying the way he squirmed a bit in his seat, ears flushing. “Now we can be together–”

“Forever,” he cut me off. His voice held more gravity than I was expecting out of our playful bantering. However, his face told me he wasn’t joking anymore.

* * *

 

“You know… they’ll find out eventually.”

“It’s not as if we’re keeping it a secret. They’re all just too daft to figure it out.” Arthur laughed lightly, shaking his head. Even he didn’t buy his own words. I leveled him a disbelieving glance before settling the tea cup on the table in front of him. I settled into the chair across from him, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug. "Honestly though, I believe we’ve already been figured out.“

"What makes you say that? Has someone said something?” My lips pressed together and I tried not to smile at his disgruntled expression. I knew– without shadow of doubt– that America had already threatened him to within an inch of his immortal life, and that Egypt had words with him at the last world meeting. Leaning forward, I smirked. “Who was it? Who knows?”

“Stop it. You’re enjoying this too much.” He groaned, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. I laughed a little deviously. Yes, I was enjoying it. It was supremely entertaining to see him try to negotiate his way out of all the threats. “Oh, you know who it was already, don’t you?” I nodded, sitting back. He huffed, losing posture to slump against the back of his chair. “And what? You didn’t feel like warning me?”

“Really, you should just be grateful that Egypt and America are nice enough not to tell anyone else. Just wait until Johnny–” Arthur cringed. “– and Russia find out.” His expression was suitably horrified and I pushed myself up from the chair, padding my way over to where the phone was located. “In fact, I think it’s high time we give up the ghost and just make the announcement. What do you think? I’ll call France first.”

He jumped to his feet as I turned with the phone in hand, a smile breaking over my face at his panicked expression. “Not France! Anyone but him! Bloody hell, just tell Italy or something.” I smiled broader and he physically deflated. “Italy knows already, doesn’t he? Is there anyone that doesn’t know?”

“France,” I answered with my fingers poised. “You’re not the greatest at keeping secrets, Arthur. They all figured it out because you said some…things at the last world meeting.”

His eyes went wide. “No I did–” Then a flash of horror. “No…”

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink when you’re trying to keep secrets,  _love_.”

“Put that phone down!”

I smiled teasingly and shook the phone at him tauntingly. “Come over here and make me.” A flash of something entered his eyes and I took a step back, edging away.

“Have you ever heard that its bad to challenge a Nation,  **love**?” He started forward and I took off running, laughing as I hobbled out of his reach. He laughed as well, moving to head me off at the pass by the stairs.

* * *

 

The airport was oddly silent, the odd hours of the early morning quietening the hustle and bustle down to a foreign hum of murmured voices and squeaking tennis shoes on laminate. I sat with my back to the windows, the runway lights reflecting on my laptop screen. Across from me, Arthur was dozing—somewhere between wake and sleep. His head tilted forward every now and again, uncontrollable blond hair brushing against his forehead in the overly enthusiastic air conditioning.

“Arthur, if you sleep now, you won’t sleep on the plane.”

He grunted and opened one eye, doing his best to glare a hole through my forehead. His voice was deeper with sleep. “It’s your fault in the first place.”

I sighed, shaking my head at the petulance in his voice. “Seriously, Arthur. It’s not my fault that America decided to throw that party last night. He knew we were due in Australia tomorrow…today?”  And that was the gospel truth. I had no idea America was going to throw a surprise party. Especially this early along.

“Well perhaps we should not have told him in the first place.” Arthur gave me a pointed look, leaning forward and running his hands over his face tiredly. “Only an idiot would keep a pregnant woman awake that late.” He sighed and let his head fall forward. Giving a humorless laugh, I sat my laptop aside and leaned forward to run my fingers through his hair. He whined pathetically, reaching up to grab my hands and holding them at the sides of his head. “You’ll mess it up more.”

“It can’t get worse,” I observed. I absently brushed the pads of my thumbs along the top of his ears. “Runs in the family, I think. Wild, untamable hair… Scotland and Wales have been cursed with it too. You know, France has already offered his services, says that there’s some sort of new treatment…” I laid the bait and waited, smiling to myself at the looming silence.  

“Wanna bet?” He tilted his head up, keeping my hands at either side of his head. His eyes were narrowed with consequence. “If that child,” his attention flickered down to my abdomen, “ends up with  _my_ hair, that Frog is getting nowhere near him—or her! Regardless, France is getting nowhere  _near_ our child. He can complain about my hair all he likes, but our child will not put up with such–” I laughed, pulling my hands away as he sat back. There was a flash of defeat. “Using France to keep me awake, that’s low.”

“It works,” I defended with a bright smile as I pulled my laptop back onto my legs. “He did say that our child would be beautiful no matter whose features they inherited.” Arthur rolled his eyes, ears reddening a bit. And my words were true this time. France has pulled me aside at the impromptu American baby shower the night before and told me just how gorgeous our child would be, smiling broadly the whole time. Arthur muttered something under his breath and gave a groan of irritation before pushing himself to his feet. “Where’re you going?”

He hesitated for a moment before dragging a hand through his hair, grimacing when it fell back onto his forehead. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his cellphone and began walking away. “I suppose I best thank the Frog for his words…I am a gentleman after all…” As he walked away, I saw the flash of a smile.

* * *

 

I gripped the gift bag’s handle a little tighter, running the pad of mythumb along the canvas string. It was a repetitive action, one that I repeated over and over and over again as I waited. My good leg bounced underneath the table while my gaze slipped over to the clock once more. Any moment now. Any moment—Ah, there it was: the scrape of a key in the lock. It signaled his arrival and I felt my heart jump into my throat. I leapt to my feet, hiding the bag behind my back. My hands were shaking, but I tried my best to hide that. He strode into the kitchen, heading directly for the tea kettle. Must have been a rough day. With the elections quickly approaching, it seemed nearly every day was stressful. “Arthur? How do you feel about take-out tonight?”

“Fine by me,” he responded. “A little takeaway never hurt anyone.” He turned and marched over to me, giving me a brief kiss on my cheek. I felt my heart nearly skitter out of my chest. I wasn’t ready for him to notice the gift bag yet. I wasn’t ready for that. Don’t notice, don’t notice. “America called my mobile. He’s been trying to contact you.” I was ignoring him. The moment I answered the phone, he’d notice something was wrong and jump the pond to make sure Arthur was treating me right. I didn’t need that. Not now. “How has your day been?”

“Uneventful,” I commented as I watched him ready the cups for the tea. “Someone got sick at the exhibit. We needed to make sure that everything was cleaned up. Then, my boss sent me home for the day.” I wait for him to ask why, but he said nothing and I felt my nervousness gaining hold. How was I going to do this? How could I do this? How could I do this? I hesitantly started to pull the bag from behind my back. “Arthur—”

“Russia’s being so stubborn again. And don’t get me started on America. I’ve been dealing with those two idiots since daybreak and haven’t had a moment’s peace since I stepped out this morning.” If he only knew what was coming, I thought as I repositioned the bag behind my back. “Did you go to the doctor? Wasn’t that yesterday?” He turned with the cups in hand and walked over to the table, settling them down before he slipped into his chair. It was oddly reminiscent, a faded memory. I bit my lip. It was the same table. “Michelle?”

My attention refocused on the present and I hesitantly pulled the bag from behind my back and settled it onto the table in front of him, slowly sinking into the chair opposite. “I got you this today.” He eyed me, crossing his arms as he sat back to gauge my expression. His brows rose in question as he took a sip of tea. “It’s not a prank, Arthur.” I could feel my heart racing faster and faster as he reached toward the bag. His hands paused for a moment before he pulled out the red and blue tissue paper. “What?”

“I didn’t do anything to deserve a present. Forgive me if I’m cautious.” He pursed his lips and reached into the bag. For a moment, the world swam in a mixture of blurs and colors and I had to remind myself to keep breathing. My attention was focused entirely on his expression as he pulled the white material out thin strips of crinkled veiling. I was utterly terrified. His mouth opened slightly as he unfolded the white material and I could see the gears shifting in his head as his brows pulled down in thought. I smiled shakily, unsure if I could keep composure. His eye flickered to me and back to the onesie then back to me. “Are you joking?” A nervous huff escaped me.

My head shook.

He looked back to the infant clothes in his hands, pulling the fabric tight as he seemed to grip it for dear life. Across the white fabric read the words: I [heart shape] England. “Are you—Are you certain? Michelle,” my name had never sounded so much like a prayer, “are you  _certain_?” The heart was embroidered with the Union Jack. He looked to me again and I nodded slightly, not quite knowing what to say. His hands were beginning to shake as I continued to laugh nervously. “I-I thought it was im-impossible. I thought—” We both thought. We both had been resigned to it. And—“Is…Are  _you_  alright?” He looked to me with frightening clarity. I gave a hesitant nod. “How long? Are you alright?” He rose from his chair and rounded the table, coming to his knees as I turned to face him. There were stories…He looked so  _scared_. “Are you alright, love? Are you—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured. The nervous feeling flowing away into joy. There was something still there, still nagging at my chest. A twinge of nervousness or fear. I couldn’t say, but I could see it reflected in his eyes as he stared up at me with all the reverence he seemed capable. A hand rose to cradle the side of my face. His other hand was holding tightly to the little onesie. We both knew. We just didn’t want to say it aloud. Saying aloud made it true. “Just severe morning sickness, that’s all. I went to the doctor today. I’m—I’m about four weeks along or so.”

He seemed contemplative for a moment, staring at my abdomen as if he could see anything there. I was surprised when he surged upward and caught my mouth. I blinked in surprise and, before I knew it, I was swept into a shaking embrace. I stared up at the ceiling, squeezing my eyes shut at the fear that was the shadow of our…happiness. “We’re to be parents. I’m going to…I’m going to be…” It didn’t take long for me to realize that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and North Ireland was sobbing into my shoulder. “A father…I’m going to be a father!” I hugged him to me as if he were the only stable thing in the world, hoping against hope that the legends weren’t true. I hoped they weren’t true. I prayed they weren’t true. They couldn’t be true.

Could they?

For the moment though, I just let the happiness take hold and would face tomorrow as best I could…with him.

* * *

 

The relief makes me a little light-headed. I’d never been one for drinking. I never drank much and when I did, it was always in tiny quantities. However, this week had been particularly difficult, mostly because it had been my last at the museum. I was due to take over a new position soon in Virginia at a university there. A few of the Nations and States had taken me out to celebrate. Unfortunately, America has a short attention span and I was left about an hour later alone at my little table at the back. A couple Nations were on the dancefloor and I didn’t quite know where Arthur had disappeared to. That was when I was approached by some fella trying to make a move.

His name was Geoffrey and he really didn’t get signals. I was closed off, said that I wasn’t interested. None of that seemed to matter, because Geoff was determined to have my number. “Come on, honey. Let me call you some time.” To which the answer was a flat, ‘no.’ I even used the classic ‘I have a boyfriend, thank you’ defense, but that was a no-go. It was after about five minutes of that nonsense that I caught sight of Arthur in the crowd. I did the only thing I could think of…I called to him.

“Arthur!” He turned, searching the crowd. I could see the shift in demeanor from twenty feet away, a squaring of his shoulders and a sudden militaristic posture. To add to the effect, I made to shrug the guy’s—Geoff,  _baby_ , Geoff—hand off my shoulder. When Arthur arrived at the table, he looked down on the smarmy jerk as if he was no more than a speck of dirt on the floor. His attention flickered to me, a smile pricking at his lips.

“Alright there, love?”

The guy looked to me in question and I just smiled in response, shrugging my shoulders. His sweaty palm left my shoulder and I saddled myself away. “ _This_ that boyfriend you were talking about? The really hot one?” I grimaced at the spark in Arthur’s eyes. Oh good Lord. “You the hot shot?”

Arthur spoke before I could. “Does it matter if I am?” He shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side. “If I were you, I would piss off.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Do you really want to test it?”

Geoff, seeing that the quest was fruitless, stood and stepped away. “Not that hot anyway, Cheerios.”

It went easier than most situations and I was grateful. I pushed down the frustration that it hadn’t been the first time something like that had happened. It had happened to me less than most, but the few times it did, it was incredibly irritating. Sighing in relief, I looked tiredly to where Arthur stood, glaring after where the man had disappeared into the crowd. “Thank you, Arthur. I mean—you didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it.”

“Didn’t have to?” He snorted, falling into the bench. “You looked supremely uncomfortable. The least I could do—when all others have abandoned you—would be to save you from the big bad wolf.” Seeming to notice a bit of ale at the bottom of his abandoned glass, he raised it in a cheers gesture before downing it. There were some few times when Arthur really did seem the picture of a gentleman. I could count them on one hand, but they were there. “You really don’t know how to handle men like that, do you?” And then that mouth.

“ _Excuse me_? I said ‘no’ for a majority of that conversation, if it could even be called a conversation. Just because some Neanderthal-brained men cannot understand the meaning of one word does  _not_ mean that I don’t know how to handle men.”

“Uh oh, Artie, what did you piss her off about?”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed. “You misunderstand—don’t call me that, Alfred!—my meaning.”

“No, I don’t. You were saying that I didn’t know how to get a guy off my back effectively. Trouble is, I do. It is not my fault, or any woman’s fault, when my refusal is perceived as playing ‘hard to get’.” My arms crossed over my chest while Arthur stared in silence, eyes narrowed critically over his glass. An inkling of doubt fluttered through my mind at the flash of disappointment that made his eyes a little less critical. Sighing, I sagged into my seat. “That’s not what you meant, is it?”

Alfred scoffed, seeming to shake the whole place with his laughter. “Look out, dude! She might punch you like Corey did NY! Better yet, here’s a baseball bat, Shell’s Bells.” I glanced up to see him pointing to the collectible baseball bat on the wall. Shaking my head, I waited for England to answer. “Uh, seriously though—is this gonna be like that time you both argued for hours only to decide that you agree and then hug it out because that was awkward as all hell.”

“You really had to bring that up now?” I felt a little sick at the reminder.

“You guys argue just to argue!”

Arthur seemed to decide that enough was enough. He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I merely meant that the best way to handle a man like that is to quickly get out of the situation. Do not be patient. No. I am not interested in you. When that does not work, call one of us. As much as I would like to believe that the world will get better and that those foolish Neanderthal men will get the message, do not put up with it. Find a way out.” He held my gaze before rolling his eyes. “I did not mean that you could not handle men, Michelle. You are smart. You know that when you feel uncomfortable or threatened, you have to make use of your resources—like me.”

“Woah, hold up! Did someone bother you, Shell?”

Arthur gave me a nod before standing up again and walking away.

“Yo! Answer the question! Point him out! I wanna have some words with whatever jerk—”

Arthur disappeared into the crowd.


	14. Jealous

I sighed, rubbing my temples. Johnny was going to drive me crazy today. I could feel it in the tension of my shoulders. I could feel it in the very air of the room. Gritting my teeth, I sat back in the chair and watched as he paced back and forth, back and forth. Shaking my head, I decided to just go in for the kill and let him get the frustration out now. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I invited Thomas to dinner.”

John stopped, freezing. His whole body seemed to shudder before he spun around to face me. “YOU DID WHAT?!”

My eyebrows rose at his tone. A flicker of doubt awashed his face for an instant before it was hidden under his anger. Snorting lightly, I directed my attention back to my book. “You’ve been chomping at the bit to have words with him. Now’s your chance.” I looked at him through my lashes. “If this is you when you’re jealous, then…”

“I’m not jealous of Country Fried!” If he’d been any more immature, he’d have stamped his foot. “The dude invited you down for whatever hillbilly bluegrass whatever and you went. I’m not the jealous sort, but then America said that the hick was trying to sweep you off your feet and I–”

“That’s jealousy, John." He started to pace again, running his hands through his hair in frustration. No matter how many times I told him that Thomas was being a punk on purpose, Johnny didn’t buy it. He said it was something about territorial whatever. Really, it was arrogance. And it was beginning to wear on my nerves. "Then you probably don’t want to know that I also invited Ivan?”

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

Alright, so I didn’t invite Russia, but…He didn’t need to know that, did he?


	15. Alfred and Michelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some readers ship it. I, unfortunately, don't.

“W-What?” I settled myself into the couch, pulling my legs underneath me. A smile pulled at my lips at Alfred’s startled whisper. Acting as if I hadn’t said anything special, I reached forward and grabbed the television remote from his non-responsive hands. Normally, he would have fought me for control of the TV, but after that…I was probably going to get control of the TV for the next nine months. His head turned slowly and he stared at me as if I were something unbelievable, something remarkable, something that both awed and terrified him. “M-Michelle, what…what did you just…say?”

“I’m pregnant.”

I’d never been one for beating around the bush. And besides, there was no point in hiding it any longer. I was already past the first trimester. I was starting to show. It was only a matter of time until everyone figured it out. Why didn’t I have wine at functions? Why were my shirts fitting differently? Why was I gaining weight?

Really, some had already figured it out and were just keeping quiet about it.

America turned to face me fully. I could feel the energy zing through his movement: he was practically bouncing. “What was that?”

I smiled and that smile slowly transformed into a beam. “I’m pregnant, America.”

There was a moment– when things went still–that I could see a childlike wonder enter his eyes. As if he couldn’t believe it possible, as if I would break, as if everything were centered in that room, in me, at that moment. Then, his eyes began to fill with tears. He let out a small laugh, so much more real than his loud booming guffaws. This laugh was fragile, purely happy. His eyes closed and he took off his glasses, running his fingers over his eyes. “Shelly…that’s…that’s…Wow.”

When he put his glasses back on, he looked to me and sat a little straighter. With the smallest of movements down the couch, he held out a hand and I took it. We stayed like that for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

It was snowing and it was gorgeous. Beautiful, big snowflakes cascading on light breezes catching the light in ways that seemed to make the world sparkle. It was remarkably pretty, you know? Just…that type of snow that makes you wonder if maybe the world could stay like that forever. A perfect little oasis of gently falling snowflakes. Me? I love snow– save for when the university didn’t cancel classes and half my students skipped. I love the quiet that comes with it, when the world just seems to hush.

Somehow, though, I found myself in the presence of someone who didn’t understand the word ‘hush.’ “IT’S FLIPPING COLD OUT HERE!”

I cringed, tightening my grip on Johnny’s arm. Brooklyn had seemed so peaceful, serene, until America's shout had interrupted the picture-perfect scene. Gritting my teeth, I turned slightly to see him bundled up as if it were the snowpocalypse. “America…there’s maybe a couple inches–”

“A couple inches!” He looked horrified, gesturing toward the snow on a nearby ledge. “It’s the Day After Tomorrow! New York, there’s gotta be a huge wave coming or something.”

“Rain came before the snow. Tidal wave before the snow. I think we’re good.” New York rolled his eyes at me, shaking his head. “He gets like this every year.”

“How does Mattie put up with this junk?" He continued on a rampage, not slowing down for a minute about how snow was the absolute worst. New York put up with it for about .5 seconds before shaking his head in dismay. Glancing around, his eyes settled on the nearby ledge and I saw his gaze become like ice. I shivered, taking a step back. I could see where this was going. "I mean! I just don’t get it! Can't we have something else? Like food falling from the sky or something?”

New York hauled back and threw a snowball with such accuracy you’d swear he played for the Yankees. America went still, mouth hanging open in shock. Then, he screeched. I fell into a fit of laughter, stumbling toward the ledge myself. “DAMMIT, JOHN!” I curved my hands into the snow while Johnny acted as a distraction. “You just rebelled against your own country! I’m not putting up with that again! What are you–” I rounded the snowball and turned, catching America’s eye.

A smirk pulled at my lips as he pointed his finger at me.

“Don’t you dare throw that snowball at–, ***dammit!”

“God bless America.”

* * *

 

One of Alfred’s hands was warm on my shoulder as I was ledforward. The other grasped my hand from behind me. I was a little unsteady, but he kept me upright—making sure to use his hand to give me some stability. Everything was dark, the blindfold tickling the top of my nose as I was guided through several rooms. I couldn’t stop smiling, so much so that my cheeks were aching. Alfred was laughing in my ear. The vibration of that laugh in his chest made me warm and I wanted nothing more than to just lean back into him and keep my eyes closed. After a few moments, we finally stopped and he released his hold on my shoulder first. I could feel him stepping around to stand in front of me, rotating his hold on my hand as he moved.

“Where are we?”

“That’s the surprise, Shells. Don’t ruin it.”

Shaking my head, I blindly glanced around. “Come on, America. Cut it out. I’ve been blindfolded for an hour.” He scoffed, muttering something about how it hadn’t actually been that long. Then, his arms wrapped around my shoulders and I could feel his fingers working with the knot at the back of my head. For a moment, his lips brushed mine. I stopped short, a bit taken aback at the action before I returned the pressure- just barely catching the corner of his mouth. Then, the blindfold slipped away and I felt him step back, taking his lips with him. I opened my eyes and blinked, adjusting to the light of the room.

I was breathless.

My arms began to tingle slightly as I took in the space.

It was…one of the most beautiful spaces I had ever seen. I stood at the center of a glass bridge, stretched through the middle of a globe. All around me, colors melted into one another as my eyes focused—reds and blues and oranges, light from behind the panes illuminating the world as it wrapped around me. My heart seemed to stop and restart as I looked up, in complete wonder. It was…indescribable. The world was around me, familiar names and familiar places in cut glass. Blues and turquoises painted the seas and oceans. Egypt rested above me, orange glass. Red, the British Isles. To my left, the vast Pacific Ocean. Chills spelled their way down my spine as I spun, eyes lifting up to the Artic Circle, Russia, and Canada, which was beautifully etched overhead.

“America…This is…” My words came in a breathy whisper. I could hear myself—the acoustics, I realized—from all sides.

“They made it in 1935. The borders are the same as they were then.” Alfred’s voice was nearby. I continued to turn, taking in the rainbow of colors. The boarders were drawn as they would have been then. Siam and the Soviet Union. “I thought you’d like them to be here.” I nodded absently, without thinking.

I was in such awe of it. The colors seemed to blur around me, and it all seemed so strange. Myself, standing on a glass bridge, at the center of the globe. After all that we had been through, to be here…A globe had nearly destroyed me and the world that I had come to love. Yet here I stood, in the middle of the world. A smile pulled at my lips and I felt tears prick at my eyes. All these years, and the world was still beautiful, no matter what form it took.

“Marry me.”

The words came in whisper, seeming to come from my right. I felt a jolt course through me. Lowering my gaze from the North Pole, I turned to look in the direction of India. No one stood there. Slowly, I rotated to the other direction. America stood at the other end of the glass bridge. His back was to me and his head was tilted back as he stared at the golden yellow ‘United States’ on the map above him. His head lowered and he turned just slightly to face me. He straightened his glasses and looked toward me. The tears that I had felt welling up before were starting to fall, one by one down my cheeks as I continued to watch him. I pressed my lips together to gain some control.

“Marry me, Michelle.”

He sank down to one knee. I didn’t think as I took one hesitant step back, eyes leaving him for just a moment to glance around at the globe embracing us. I couldn’t—We couldn’t—

“Shelly, look at me.”

I focused on him again, watching with a racing heart as he pulled a box from his bomber jacket pocket. “A-A-I don’t—”

America smiled up at me before he focused on opening the ring box. “I know what you’re thinking, Shell. I don’t really care. I get it. They’re all nightmares and they’re coming for us. Seriously, I’m not going into this blind. I know what I’m doing, and I know what I want.” He looked up at me again, Alfred’s typical confidence shining through his obvious nervousness. “We’ve known for a long time, right?” He held out the ring box and grinned. And it was the oddest moment.

We stood at the center of the world, among our friends and family- alone. Our whispers were like shouts and I could swear that he could hear my terrified heartbeats as I struggled to breathe. “I’ll die,” I responded. My eyes glanced up to where he was located on the map overhead. “You’ll live forever…and-and I’m going to die.”

“Yeah, something like that.” His head nodded as he slowly rose from his kneeling position. I refocused on him as he started forward. “You’re gonna get old, Shell’s Bells. You’re gonna die. And that’s—” He stopped and didn’t advance any further on the bridge. He looked around and grinned. “In about seventy years, this map’s changed a lot…It don’t stay the same forever. Someday, Shelly, it’ll be outdated because I’ve gone too. We’re all gonna die one day. Including me.” Alfred looked to me again and grinned. And I remembered why I fell in love with him in the first place. Behind him, I could see him emblazoned on the map- caught in unchanging, changing history. “I already have a lot of regrets, Shelly.”

“I—”

“Shelly, please… You will never be one of my regrets.” He reached forward and took my hand in his. “Marry me?” I hesitated, chest heaving as I tried to regain my breath. And, with a tearful laugh, I began to nod. 


	16. Faint

No one had noticed, and that was what bothered him the most.

Sure, Alfred could admit that he was kinda oblivious most of the time—having a million and one odd things to do at any given moment sort of does that to a person, ya know? And, throughout the whole day, he had noticed Canada’s pale face at the back of the crowd. He knew his brother, knew that he would stay out of sight as much as possible and try to make it through the day’s events without saying that he felt like crap. 

If anyone ever claimed Canada to be anything other than stubborn, then Alfred would laugh his ass off. It was honestly a little impressive just how stubborn Mattie was…especially when— America gave a nod to the human representative who was performing the tour, making sure the man knew that he was listening. He wasn’t though. He was much more interested in what was happening at the back of the group. His attention fell on Michelle, who was clearly focused on Canada. Her lips were pursed and her brows yanked together in thought. And, from there, it could only get more interesting. Shelly knew Mattie was sick, and was probably planning to say something about it.

Just as he started toward the back of the group to try another stupid attempt at matchmaking—because it had been two freakin’ years since he’d figured out his goofball brother’s feelings—things starting to go wrong at, like, hyperspeed. Seriously, it was like some Mach-Ten type honky. When Matthew’s went white as a sheet, Alfred knew it was just a matter of a few seconds before he went down. He recognized the look—the face slackening, eyes rolling back, and the slight wobble in his steps.

Then, Canada just dropped.

Dropped, like a sack of potatoes. 

And there was Michelle a second later, stumbling backward as she hauled Mattie up. His weight was too much for her though, and her bum leg. She went to the ground beneath him, both crashing against the wall. Alfred pushed his way through the crowd, heart nearly careening out of his chest. “Matt!”

When he was able to push through, leaving the annoying human representative behind, he arrived to find Michelle brushing the hair out of Canada’s face and pressing a hand to his forehead. His brother was propped up against her chest as she leaned against the wall. America crouched next to them, worry cutting through his normally beaming facade. 

“Shell–”

“He’s fainted,” she cut him off. “Cancel the tour. Get us to a hospital.” 

Alfred didn’t need to be told twice, not with the tone of her voice and Mattie’s sweat-covered face. He rose to his feet and did as he was told, all the while keeping an eye on his brother and Michelle, who never once released her hold. It was only when the security guards arrived that Mattie seemed to regain consciousness, muttering something under his breath. America pushed through the crowd again and landed on his knees. 

“Matt? Canada? You okay?” 

“What…what happened?” 

“You fainted…straight into my arms.” Michelle spoke up, voice low. He could see Matthew stiffen in her arms– like he was just now realizing where he was and who was holding him. “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t need to go to such extremes.” Alfred barked a laugh at Michelle’s jibe and Matthew’s soft smile stayed in place as he closed his eyes again, body relaxing. 

“You’re in good hands, Mattie.” 


	17. Michelle and Thomas

There are always first moments that happen in every relationship. There’s the first date. First fight. First kiss. First intimate moments. First time holding hands. Those are the firsts that everyone talks about, but some firsts are more domestic. And rarely are those stories ever told. We were still in that odd stage of a relationship, the transition between living separately and living together.

And it had been one hell of a transition.

Of course, America was making it as difficult as possible and Arthur was currently being the world’s biggest naysayer. And New York was threatening Tommy to within an inch of his life. All of that complicated matters. However, we dealt with it as well as we could. We wanted to work it out. 

I think we had formed some sort of silent rule in the house. If the bathroom door was closed, then someone was using the bathroom. And therefore, you could go to the other bathroom upstairs or hold it. Like I said, that awkward stage: when going to the bathroom is still considered taboo or worrisome in the relationship. 

I’d always thought that weird, honestly, but it didn’t change the fact that the door always remained shut whenever I was in there. And the same went for him. 

So, morning came along and I am sitting there. And out of nowhere, the door swings open and there’s Tommy. Thomas Morgan in his pajama pants and his messy hair and his still-sleepy eyes– which are widening every second he stares at me in the daze. And I sit there, mouth hanging open in a silent scream of embarrassment. And that jerk–

That jerk just  _smiles_ a moment later _and leans on the door jamb._

“Well, this is awkward…”

“Get out, Thomas.”

“I thought you started calling me Tommy,” he murmured tiredly. I saw it as fake and narrowed my eyes. He grinned then, laughing lightly at my expression. Curse that grin. It was too attractive. “Oh, what’s _that_  look for?”

“Next time you wash your hair, it’s turning pink.” I threatened as best I could, mostly because I knew I could pull it off. I fought away the blush because the logical side of my brain was kicking in during my panic. What did this matter anyway. “I swear, bright pink. Back out right now.” I grabbed the nearby standby roll of toliet tissue and lobbed it at his head. “Tommy!”

“I’ve been needing a change! I think pink’ll do it!” He danced out of the way and out of the door, letting it close with a final snap. I let out a breath and let my chin fall into my chest, sighing. “When we get married, you’re gonna have to get used to this!” I threw another roll of toilet tissue at the door and smirked at the thud of it. “Keep throwing tissue rolls and there won’t be any left! Then things’ll get really awkward!”


	18. Pirate

“Wanna bet?”

I sighed through my nose, deflating a bit as my head dropped forward. My chin rested on my chest as I tried to work through my argument. Honestly, as soon as this debate began, I knew I was going to lose. Arthur was hard-headed, stubborn, and set in his ways. And he was also accustomed to getting his way. The moment his formal speak slipped into a slang-like territory and he lost his proper posture, I knew I was done-for. It was my fault to begin with. “Arthur, it’s not–”

“No,” he cut me off. I could imagine his hand rising in a ‘stop’ motion. I let out a mirthless laugh, keeping my head lowered and my eyes closed. “You just issued a challenge. I heard you right, yes?” 

My head rose and I stared at the man practically steaming at the foot of the bed. It was too late for this. “Arthur, seriously…” This was exasperating. “All I meant was that–”

“Antonio’s in better physical condition! I know exactly what you meant, Michelle! I bet that I am just as physically capable as that no-good Spain!” He must have read something in my expression because he threw his hands up into the air and began pacing, waving his hands about. “Unbelievable! My own wife! My own bloody wife thinks that I’m incapable of–”

I held up a finger. “Not… incapable…just…” He stopped, turning to wait for my explanation. I smiled a little bit, shrugging my shoulders helplessly. “Out of practice.” 

“Oh  _yes_ , that’s loads better.” He stopped, turning to point in my direction. “I was a pirate too, you know–”

“I know.”

“–and was more than capable of taking Spain down back in the day–”

“I know.”

“–and I could haul more than my own body-weight in ropes–”

“I know.”

“You know all that, but you still think that Spain’s in better physical condition than me?” I rolled my eyes, reaching over to the nightstand to grab my book. My glasses sat atop the novel and I slipped them on, glancing at him over the rims. Arthur was practically blazing with irritation. “I have kept in top physical condition since I reached maturity! How could you possibly–”

“You could do all that in the past, but I don’t think you could do it now. That’s all I said, Arthur. I never said Spain was any better looking than you. You’re putting words in my mouth.” He opened his mouth to argue and I just shook my head. “Arthur, you are attractive enough. I get that you’re competitive with Spain, but this is ridiculous.” He didn’t move. 

“Tomorrow we’re going to my boat.” 

“Arthur–”

“I made a bet and now I will finish it.”

I let out a sighing and whining laugh, chin dropping onto my chest again. “Okay, Captain Kirkland. Whatever you want.”


	19. Antics

The Italy Twins were the most ridiculous and sly smooth-talkers the world has ever known. Strangely enough though, most of the world seemed oblivious to their ways, writing off their ways of approaching women as the same way they approach anyone else. And that was so far departed from the truth that it was actually comical. Feliciano was the sweet one, the one that would casually play with a loose curl, giggling lightly and making whispered jokes. His mask would slip every now and again, and his game was clearly visible–but it was very hard to catch him in the act. Romano was the exact opposite. He was forward, but polite. He used sweet-talk and muttered Italian phrases to sweep women off their feet. 

And on this night, their target was me.

For a celebration of the twins’ birthday, we had been collectively invited for a night out in Rome. The events of the evening landing us in a small tuckaway bar on the outskirts of town. The room was rather hushed, the chink-clink of glasses and silverware brushing up against the mellow sounds of the acoustic band at the back of the hole. And I had taken refuge at a corner booth, hiding from Alfred’s shrill complaints about the lack of coke in the establishment. 

That’s when the twins descended. 

“Bella signora, you look so pretty this evening!” 

My brows rose as Feliciano scooted himself into the booth and threw an arm around me, casual as anything. Romano strategically slid himself into the other side of the round table, entrapping me or corralling me. Both. Here we go. “Don’t start.” 

Romano scoffed, “Start what? It’s not like we came to start any drama. We just wanted to sit with the most beautiful woman in the room. I could write songs about your beauty.” 

“I’m hardly the woman people see across the bar and plant themselves next to or write songs about.” I took a sip of my wine and sat back. There was a spectre in the crowd, ghosting closer and closer through the bodies. “Besides, you’re both too young for me.” 

Feli let out a lamenting wail, cuddling into my shoulder. I withheld a sigh, scanning the room for someone, anyone, to save me from their antics. Then, my right hand was taken gently from the tabletop. I blinked, looking toward Romano’s intense gaze. I started a bit at that. In all my observations, he had rarely brought out that stare. 

“I am very much older than you…bella signora.” 

This time, I did sigh. In the crowd, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone who might help, but he was gone the next second and I was left to my fate. “Romano, you’re a sweetheart. And this might work with the little girls you chat up, but I am telling you now that I am going to shut you down if you keep going.” My blunt tone just made the darker haired Nation grin as his lips descended upon the top of my hand. 

“Hey, look it’s–” Feliciano’s chipper introduction was abruptly cut off as Romano’s arm was grasped and he was yanked not-too-kindly from the booth. His lips left my hand as a screech erupted from his mouth and he flew into a flurry of curses. A moment later, I heard Feli laugh in my ear and his words were an excited whisper. “It looks like our plan worked!” Then, he disappeared from my side, same as his brother. 

“Go.” 

Egypt, back straight and arms crossed, stood in front of my table. Both of the twins stepped back with their hands up, a gleeful glint in North Italy’s eye as the both turned and disappeared into the crowd. It was only after they had disappeared that my savior turned and sat down just at the edge of the booth, silent as ever. 

Somewhere in the background, I could hear some Italian singer crooning a love song and the jangle of a tambourine. But I was more distracted by Egypt’s clasped hands on the tabletop– white-knuckled and clenched. It was only after his muscles relaxed a bit that he seemed able to unclench his jaw. 

“They should know better. Stupid.” 

“Maybe they–” Then it struck me. It struck me like lightning. It struck me like a match on a strike. I leaned forward, trying to look into his eyes. He avoided my attention, focusing on the crowd. But his hands remained clenched and his jaw muscles were working beneath the golden skin. His brows pulled together, as if waiting for some else to approach. Something inside me felt absolutely giddy. “Wait a minute, Egypt. Are-Are you  _jealous_?”

He turned, and, after a moment, nodded. “Yes. Of course.” 


	20. Shatter

He knew himself to be a brilliant and ruthless tactician. His empires had shown evidence of this throughout history, rising and falling like the sun. Always, he positioned himself in the most advantageous locations—whether that was away from the turmoil to wait out the destruction or with a knife cutting through the flesh of an ineffective ruler. China was not above it. What was necessary, was simply that, and he could not bring himself to think otherwise. China, for all of his veiled (and often no-so-veiled) ruthlessness, still loved his people. He adored them in a way that gave him the strength needed to keep going. He could cut himself loose from the folly of pathetic human strategy though. Zhōngguó was not above sacrificing the one to save the many.

The factors that had led to this single moment—it was destiny. Despite all his years, China still believes in the concept of fate. Some are born to sad fates. Some are born to great ones. Some are born to simple living. Some were born to complication and strife. The strings had been unravelling for quite some time to align him with this very moment with her standing at the mark.

That cursed globe—the one which had completely undone history—was held in her shaking hands. Her normally calm eyes were wide with fear as she stared down at it. The globe was casting her in an eerie red light. In his culture, red was fortuitous. It meant joy, and good tidings. It meant wonderful things. He loved the color. At one time, he had so many red robes that they took up an entire room of his palace. Prosperity, good fortune. In this moment though, the crimson glow that was cast up her arms and onto her face meant only one thing: destruction. She looked breathless with it, and what it meant. Slowly, her attention tracked over the room.

China watched critically from where he leaned heavily against the wall. He could barely breathe. The battle had taken great effort and, now…He watched the girl’s eyes trek over to the first body, nearest to her. America had been knocked unconscious. Slowly, he pushed himself off the wall and stumbled forward, holding his side. The red glow became more intense and he could see the pain beginning to eat at her. Her muscles were tensing as she looked to where Russia was lying, then to where England was barely stirring from his unconsciousness. Over in his direction, at his feet, where Egypt was bleeding out onto the floor. Then, her eyes turned to him and she let the true pain show.

Agony.

Agony so clear that he did not need a millennia to recognize it.

He had seen men and women tortured by terrible (but effective) means. Her face contorted in a way that reminded him of those times in the emperor’s courtyard. Torture, as if her whole body were being dismantled. And, perhaps it was. It struck him then: she had been hiding the pain until she was sure no one could see.

Her hands were no longer visible in the light. Disintegrating.

“Ch-Ch-ina—” Her breaths were desperate and quick.

Gritting his teeth, he looked at his options. Just one. He stooped down and took hold of an object on the concrete floor, by Egypt’s limp and outstretched hand, pulling it from its sheaf. It was still coated with blood. Her eyes widened impossibly and her mouth opened in a silent scream, red light pulsing from the world in her hands. She was pleading. He had never had a connection with the woman, but he recognized the crinkle in her forehead. He knew that expression. It was one that had haunted him for a thousand years. There was a few spare seconds when he considered other options.

He was, after all, a master tactician. A master of strategy. A master of doing what needed to be done.

China stumbled forward, just as a scream ripped out of her throat. She seemed unable to control it any further. The crimson light was eating its way up her arms. It was as if she were being eaten alive, torn apart and devoured. It was better to move behind her, so she could not see. So she could not know. It would be kinder. And China knew kindness just as much as he knew how to kill. He could hear someone stirring behind him but he was already in motion. There would be no stopping him.

It was Italy’s voice—light and weak. He rested against the wall, too exhausted to stand up. China gave him a look of sympathy, but did not pause. He continued to move, only just barely catching a glimpse of the waking Nations, who heard only Michelle’s terrified and paralyzing painful screams. She had to know he was going to do something. He could see her shoulders tensing. “Please don’t—”

He latched himself around her shoulder and stabbed into her chest, the dagger well-balanced and sharp in his hand. It slid into her skin with such efficiency it almost seemed cruel. It was mercy though. It was mercy. She let out a gurgled gasp, eyes widening and knees weakening. There were a few scant moments that the whole room seemed to quake underfoot, when the roar of something greater seemed to come from the globe that had consumed her hands. The light grew more intense, red painting everything. Her head turned slightly to his and he pulled back, stilling keeping her aloft. With a weak sigh of relief, she started to smile a bit—lips covered in red. “Th-thank—” The light became brighter and her eyes widened with fear. 

Just before he could make another stab, he felt something hit his stomach before he was shoved out of the crimson light. It flashed and he looked up, sucking in a breath.

In the blink of an eye, she disappeared. The room was cast in shadow.

A bloodied dagger clattered to the floor.

A gemstone globe shattered upon impact.

China, for all his strength and all of his history, could no longer keep himself from falling to his knees. 


	21. Once

It is not until much later that he allows himself to think on it—after everyone returned home, after the countries settled, after she called him and asked to visit. After three thousand years of living, he had experienced fearful and terrible things. He had seen much of history and had come to realize something that was so wholly irrefutable that he could barely breathe with the knowledge of it. And there she sat across from him, on his sofa, comfortably wrapped in his favorite blanket, two full weeks past her planned date of departure, eyes drifting shut as the fire continued to crackle in the hearth. She did not even know.

He had come to many conclusions regarding Michelle Daniels, some more telling than others. Rarely did she see her own worth. Turning slightly, he rests his palm against his temple and props himself up to watch as she attempts to fight off sleep. It is a lost battle and her eyes finally close with finality, face angled toward the fire—the only other light in the room. For a moment, Egypt just watches her sleep. All of the stress is gone and her features are slack. She is secure and protected, as she should always be.

_You can’t have her._

Egypt knows. He knows better than anyone. All paths looked the same, no matter which he took. He had seen it a million times over, playing again and again in his mind. The same images, even as she sat near him—warm and safe. She was being led away, pulled by Germany into the darkness. Her lips moved, an entrancing spell being cast as he understood the words and they carved a bloody path through his chest and into his very soul. Words he would never forget, as long as he lived. He could not muster the strength to save her. It was a hopeless battle, one that made him feel weaker than he had ever in his life. She was being taken, again. He could remember the fear in her eyes, always so strong and so honest. Fear of what was to come. Fear for him. And he tried  _so hard_. Every muscle quivered with effort before he heard it.

“Egypt,” she had said.

She had whispered it like a prayer before she disappeared.

For that single moment, his mind had flickered over various scenarios. If he could break the command and get to her—but that would not be possible. He was not powerful enough to break a command. Even if he could, they would not make it out alive. He had briefly thought of abandoning the plan to take her away. She would never survive an escape. He would make it out alive, but she…Nevertheless, his foot had somehow taken a single step forward before she had disappeared. Too late.

_Too late._

The warmth of the room was both comforting and unsettling. He wondered at the way the firelight danced on her features. There was a certain awe to it, a certain rapture that he could not quite understand. He knows that the others can see it. A small part of him wishes that they did not—that they wrote off Michelle as another mere human and let her be. There is no way to cut her from the world. She had earned a place in the hearts of many, but Egypt  _knows._  

Her lips part as she slips into a deeper sleep. There are no words for it, so he instead pulls himself out of the armchair he had been propped in for the past few hours and quietly pads his way over to where she is slumped in the pillows of the sofa. She is breathing heavily through her nose—in and out, in and out. And he had never really thought that breathing could be so entrancing.

As slowly as he can, he lowers himself to a knee beside the sofa. Her name comes on an exhalation as he brushes a few strands of hair from her face. She does not hear him. Perhaps that is for the best. Though he  _knows_ , and he has known nothing better in his life, Egypt cannot bring himself to do anything more than brush the tips of his fingers along her cheek. It is the gentlest gesture he has ever made in his long life. His thumb draws across her cheek before he pulls back.

 _Egypt,_ she had said.

_Trust me._

_Be careful._

“Just once,” he whispers. “Just once.”

_I love you._

_You can’t have her._

Rising a bit from his kneeling position, he leans forward and hesitates—his face mere inches from hers. And he can feel the heat of her breath on his face. And he can feel his heart beating all the way through to his arms. He feels weaker than he had ever in his life. It is a few moments that he lingers there, watching and waiting, thinking of all the ways the future could play out. All of the plans and possibilities. Each path ended with the same conclusion. He exhales, squeezing his eyes shut to battle away the visions. With an achingly slow movement, he braces himself and presses his lips to her forehead. His eyes closed tight again, trying to remember every detail, trying to pull every emotion into that one moment of intimate contact.

Egypt  _knows_ , and perhaps that was the most painful part of all.


	22. Little One

I wrapped the tissue around my finger and then unraveled it again, channeling my grandmother’s anxious habits as I waited. The sound of machinery echoed through the waiting area as I pressed myself back into one of the uncomfortable leather seats. Every now and then, random snippets of conversation caught my attention in languages that I couldn’t understand. There was some English, some French, and some Arabic at times, but the majority was Russian and I had only ever been able to learn a scant amount of Russian. Certainly not enough to understand conversations. People flooded past me as I remained in silence. My bags sat with me, the tags of which proudly (or obnoxiously) declared my nationality. It was payback for letting America come with me to Kohl’s on a shopping trip. In this area of the airport, there were no repeated warnings regarding the safety of air travel and whatnot. Instead, classical music played over the loudspeakers—Tchaikovsky. It was calming, no matter how nervous I was.

“ _Dushenka_.”

Turning, I found Ivan striding up through the rows of waiting chairs. His coat sat heavy around his shoulders and, though he was clearly trying to hide it, he was out of breath. I smiled, relief and excitement fluttered into my chest at the sight of him. I pushed myself up and angled around the suitcases, accepting the kisses that were placed onto either of my cheeks before I was pulled into a hug. He only ever did it when I visited him, and it was customary. I embraced him in return. “It is good to seeing you, Michelle. I am sorry for my lateness.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Stepping back, I grinned up at him. “You alright? You’re winded.”

“No, I am fine. No problem.” Despite my raised eyebrow, Ivan chose to ignore my unasked question. Instead, he reached for the roller handle of my suitcase. And, without my prompting, he also grabbed my shoulder bag as well and slid it off my arm. I sighed, knowing that it was no use to try and keep any of the bags on my person. Every time, Russia would carry them all. “One visit a year is boring. You should move here for the summer. It is prettier.” I followed after him, watching the tenseness in his shoulders as he led the way. Something was wrong. “Are you hungry? We can grab food on the way home.”

“Food would be nice,” I agreed as we stepped out into the cold air. It was far colder here than back at home. It took all of my control not to shiver. If I did, I knew Ivan well enough to know that he would take off his own jacket just to keep me warm. And really, I just wanted to get to the car. The travel would wear me out on a normal day. Now, it was just plain exhausting. “Is your boss overworking you? You need to make sure you rest.” He paused, surprise clear as crystal on his face. Then, he turned and smiled at me—just as the cloud bank overhead seemed to lighten enough for sunlight to break through. He practically giggled, innocent joy seeming to make him bounce on his toes as he looked upward to the sky. It was so rare to see him that happy.

Ivan’s smiles were usually fully of innocence and joy. This smile though, it seemed different somehow.

“No, he is not overworking me! I have the weekend off so that I can spend it with you!” Ivan turned his attention back to me, face still alight with giddiness. “I was late because I want to surprise you.” Without any further explanation, he started walking again toward what I recognized to be his car. I laughed at just how excited he seemed now, as if whatever weight had been on him earlier had been somehow lifted. “Get inside. You should not be too cold.” I did as I was told and found flowers waiting in my seat. Five yellow roses, same as with every visit.

When we arrived to our destination, I knew that he had already figured me out. I don’t know what it was, but I could just sense it in the way he wouldn’t let me even try to help unloading the bags. The most he would let me carry were the yellow roses and the takeout, and he even looked a bit questionable about that much. I followed him through the front door, pulling my scarf from my neck as I moved and hooking my cane beside his on the coatrack. Taking a deep breath, I followed him through to the kitchen. “I’m pregnant,” I said as I walked up to the counter and sat the takeout on the counter.

He went still, face going frighteningly blank for an instant. His eyes seemed to flash a darker color before he seemed to shake it off. I felt my hands shaking, and I stuffed them into my jean pockets. I shifted on my feet. He murmured something in Russian, but I couldn’t make it out. Then, he smiled hugely and gave a mirthful laugh.

“Congratulations, _dushenka_! You will be wonderful mother.” I watched him set about putting some tea on the stove. “How are you feeling?” My eyes narrowed at his back.

“How long have you known?”

“Since three days ago,” he responded easily. “Most everybody knows.” Ivan turned to me and leaned against the counter, great arms crossing over his broad chest as he looked down at me. “I appreciate that you wanted to tell me, like family. You have only told a few people, da?”

Well, it explained his extra vigilance for sure. Then, it clicked in my mind and I mirrored his stance, crossing my arms.

“What’s the surprise, Ivan?”

“Oh, nothing.” He turned back to the tea on the stove and I saw the tenseness in his shoulders again. Nervous energy tugged at my stomach as I felt myself deflate, shoulders rounding forward. Suddenly, I felt exhausted—the whole world already knew. They knew. “Don’t worry, _dushenka_ …” He turned slightly, expression hauntingly determined. I could see the Nation there, staring me in the face. “You and the little one…” His eyes flicked down to where my hand was absently resting. I looked to him, no longer hiding the fear that I felt. I was scared. “ _Ya budu zashchishchat’ tebya, dushenka_.”

“What did  _that_ mean?”

He just smiled.


	23. Ignorant

John Jay Jones was an ignorant son of a gun and it was utterly.  _infuriating_.

Growling curses under his breath, Thomas Morgan (the embodiment of all that was Tennessee) tucked his damp curly hair behind his ears and hid his face lower under his cap. The rain was falling in relentless torrents, thunder rollin’ overhead as it shook the ground. It was almost enough to break a person’s ankles and, an even further wonder why anyone lived on the west coast, with the ground shaking so much underfoot. You know, the Good Lord said: “’twas a foolish man who built his house upon the sand.” Sometimes, Thomas wondered if he’d somehow built his own house on top of quicksand, or sometimes he wished he had. Maybe then the end would come quicker. He grimaced and sidestepped into an alleyway, narrowly avoiding a uniformed patrol. Who would’ve ever thought New York City would be behind enemy lines? This was a stupid plan.

It was all gonna come tumblin’ down.

Tennessee picked his way through the trash-riddled alley, flinching a bit at the resounding clap of thunder that rattled the windows of the buildings he shimmied between. “That dumb Yank…” Any soldier with good common sense knew that staying behind enemy lines was a bad idea, but New York? New York was stubborn. The entire northside of his land had been taken by Germany’s forces—New York City was a hollow bastion of the East Coast. Boston has already fallen; Massachusetts was said to be dead. Maine was missing, dead. New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, New Jersey… New York though, he still had a chance. If he’d just leave the damn city behind and let it go. Syracuse and the eastern portions were still free. He could still make it.

But everyone knew John wouldn’t do it.

Shifting slightly, Tennessee looked up into the low-hanging rainclouds and sighed, a puff of smoke leaving his mouth to linger in the raindrops for a moment. It was only a matter of time before they firebombed New York City, ended it in the same way it started. Rumors of it had been spreading through the Southern Coalition like wildfire. And Thomas knew that there was only one last chance to get John out before he sacrificed himself in some utterly stupid, self-sacrificing campaign. Germany would show no mercy. The Battle of Boston proved that. Providence proved that. New Haven and Scranton proved it. The stories that came out of those places; it was the stuff of nightmares. Adjusting his rifle on his back, Tennessee found himself standing in front of a green-tinged metal door, hiding in the maze of buildings that made up the lower East Side. With a quick knock, he simply waited for the door to be opened.

“Password?”

“You’re an idiot. Open the door.”

The door cracked open a bit, revealing John’s gaunt features. His eyes were sunken and glassy, cheekbones prominent from the embargos and blockades. Well,  _shit_. Thomas looked to the sky again, trying to keep his emotions in check. “That’s not the password.”

Tennessee snorted, shaking his head as he stepped forward and pushed his way inside, quickly closing the door behind himself. New York stepped back without argument, demonstrating just how weak he actually was. It’d been two years since the start of Germany’s siege and it was abundantly clear: New York was not gonna survive. “You look like hell, Yankee.” Pulling off the military-issue coat, Thomas paced further inside. The space was small—enough to go unnoticed. There were only candles lit to break up the darkness. His eyes skittered toward couple filled bookcases and he studiously ignored the small stuffed animals and women’s products that lay on the table nearby. Plausible deniability was the best route. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

“What’re  _you_  doing here? Couldn’t they send someone else?” John sighed, running a hand through his hair. He trudged past, a ghostlike imitation of the once strong and proud man he had once been. As he passed, he reached up to hook his fingers under the cap and he flipped it off Tommy’s head. “Be respectful, Country Fried. Take your hat off inside.” He continued toward the small sitting area, falling into a ragged sofa. “You’re not exactly who I was expecting.”

“You wanted Virginia? Or maybe Georgia?” Tennessee gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head before brushing his hand through the wet curls. “Virginia’s pretty much bed-ridden. Got shot at Norfolk.” New York flinched. “Yeah, that was a hell of a battle. And Georgia’s caught a fever. We’re not sure he’s gonna make it.” Thomas made his way to one of the chairs and spun it around to sit with either leg on sides of the back. His arms crossed over the top. “Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, pretty much the whole northeastern gang—they’re all dead. You’re the only one left alive.” He noticed a small, sarcastic smile pulling at John’s lips. That smile was unsettling. “What?”

“Delaware?”

Thomas shook his head, but said nothing.

“Damn,” John muttered. He glanced toward the bookcases and then down at his hands, thin fingers brushing over his slacks. “Who would’ve thought it end like this, huh? All those years fighting for independence and this is what…” His blue eyes could have never been considered haunting before, but Tennessee nearly recoiled when they settled on him with all the conviction of a dying man. “Is Alfred—”

“He’s alive. They’re setting up the defensive just south of Norfolk.” Tennessee closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his forehead into his folded arms. His voice was muffled, but he knew John could hear him. “I volunteered to come up here—to get you out.” The confession was heavy, pressing down upon both States as they sat in silence. Thomas kept his eyes shut, the weariness pressing like a knife into his temples. “You know this can’t be how it ends. We worked too hard. We fought too much.” His hands tightened around the wood, feeling it creak under the pressure. He was just so angry. Angry at Germany. At Italy and Japan. At the Axis. At humanity. At everything. “Damn it!”

“I’m not leaving.” New York said after a few moments, voice just barely above a whisper. Tennessee raised his head and he knew in that moment that his assumptions had been right. New York was one stubborn, ignorant, prideful son of a gun. He was also a man of conviction and a man who stood up for what was right. Thomas hid his face in his folded arms again, not wanting the other State to see any weakness. “I’m not going. If I’m going out, then I’m going out fighting, but I am  _not leaving_.” Thomas sucked in a breath and put on a mask, positioning it so firmly over his emotions that even years later he would struggle to remove it. His eyes narrowed at the State across from him. “Tennessee, you know…” New York smirked, raising his eyebrows in challenge. It was a stark reminder of how he once appeared. “If you die, I’ll  _kill_ you.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, seeing the jab for what it was. An echo of the bravado they once shared. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You wouldn’t leave either,” New York commented as if it was explanation enough. “You’d stay until the end.”

Tennessee didn’t reply, but—of course—New York was right. For all their bickering and hatred and arguments throughout the years, New York knew him well enough to recognize that shared trait. Thomas would never leave his land. Not for all the stars in the sky. “What do you want me to tell the others? That I couldn’t find you?” John shrugged, glancing toward the bookcase. “I’ve gotta tell ‘em something, John. They deserve that much. Alfred deserves that much.” John looked back to him and his gaze became hard.

“Tell them I went down fighting.”


	24. Sanity

Thomas raised his eyebrows at me expectantly over his plate of meats and greens, his mouth obviously stuffed full. I stared at him dully, a piece of cornbread halfway to my lips. He flicked his eyes none-to-casually toward the right then jerked his head for emphasis. He then smiled around his food. Over to our right, Alfred was laughing uproariously at something my mother had said. She had her hand on his shoulder, holding it to keep herself upright. There was a proud flash in Alfred’s eyes, as if he had just unlocked some impossible achievement in one of his videogames. His attention flickered to me and he grinned. Something struck my knee under the table and I reacted on instinct, sending my uninjured foot out in reprimand. Thomas nearly jumped out of his chair. “Michelle—”

“—seriously, Mrs. Daniels! I never thought Michelle was a prankster! She got me good! I was totally blindsided! And then Arthur— ” My mother was still doubled-over. Now that I knew America was recounting our April Fools shenanigans, I felt heat flush my ears and down my neck. Thomas kicked me lightly under the table again and I sent him a searing glare.  _You do that again and see what happens._ “Poor Johnny! He’s still blushing!”

“Ol’ New York’s a closet voyeur. He enjoyed it.” Thomas argued under his breath.

“Michelle’s had to hold her own against Corey and Jessie. Donna had it worst of them all, being the oldest.” I snorted, shaking my head. No, Donna just never got  _caught_  when she took revenge on Corey and me for our pranks. Momma’s sharp gaze turned to me and I had the common sense to look somewhat ashamed. I didn’t pull it off though. She gave me a pat on my shoulder and shook her head. “You should’ve gotten Arthur as well, honey. That boy could use some laughter.” I just grimaced around my collards, knowing that any prank pulled on Arthur would be returned ten-fold. No, thank you. “Y’all behave. Alfred, try to keep my baby girl out of trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Alfred saluted.

Thomas scoffed into his sweet tea. “Mrs. Daniels, that’s a tall order! It’d be Michelle keeping him outta trouble.”

“Either way works.” Mom shrugged her shoulders before moving off to talk with one of the other tables filled with regular customers. Alfred turned slightly back toward our table, his food untouched. I expected it to be completely devoured within a few minutes, with the way he was beaming down at it. One thing that could be said for America—he adored all cuisines within his borders, even if his preference was a classic burger and fries. He shoveled a spoonful of butter potatoes into his mouth and I received another swift kick to my knee.

Now, I was getting irritated.

“ _Knock it off_ ,” I mouthed at my home State.

He jerked his head in Alfred’s direction.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. Fine, fine, fine. “So, America…” He glanced up and grinned with closed lips, eyes closing with mirth. I couldn’t help but smile back. He just looked so happy and at ease. In fact, now that I thought about it, he had looked relaxed since we’d left Washington. It’d been a road trip down the coast, staying with the States until we reached Tennessee so I could see my family for a summer vacation. Nothing but blaring eighties music, open windows, and feet on the dash as we’d sped down the major highways. “So, I found this waterfall…when I was younger.” He nodded, obviously interested. “I figured we could visit it this afternoon after we head out. We don’t have anything tonight, so…”

“Chyeah! I’m down.”

I glanced over to where Thomas was giving me a significant look. This is what I got for trusting him with personal confessions. “Great! It’s about an hour hike if we’re walking it. Probably can get there in about thirty minutes from the house if we take the truck.”

“No prob. We already got—We’re going out in a  _truck? Like a truck-truck?_ ” His attention went a little hazy and a sort-of lopsided smirk pulled at his lips. I shot Tennessee a questioning look. He shrugged in return. “Like, is it a monster truck? I’ve always wanted to ride in a monster truck!” I had to keep my head from falling into my food while Thomas choked on a piece of okra. “I mean, trucks in the wilderness have, like,  _huge_  tires right?” I distinctly thought I heard Thomas muttering something about ‘city folk,’ but I saw the momentary flash of amusement in Alfred’s eyes. He was just messing with Tennessee as a way to pass the time. 

He sent me a wink when he took a swig of his coke to confirm my suspicions.

“Yep, a monster truck.” I nodded while he gave a whoop. 

“Don’t encourage him!”

“And Matt’s coming in town tomorrow. So, if we’re gonna take off now is the time. It’s way far back there. Corey and I liked to have never gotten back after we found it.”

“Are there gonna fairies there? Arthur says that fairies live around bodies of water. You know, if they exist—which they totally don’t.”

“Of course,” I agreed immediately. I took a bite of my pie and waited.

“Yeah, and when you step in the water and spin around three time a magic fairy fiddler pops out to give you a wish.” Thomas grunted, shaking his head. I was just hoping that he didn’t bring up the ghost stories about the bridge near my house. Then I would never get Alfred there. When he looked to America, he turned green and looked away again. “Man,  _don’t_ believe that. I was just making it—”

“I wanna make a wish!”

Thomas shot me a look and glanced at America again before snorting. “You wanna a wish? I think you better wish that Michelle keeps enough patience to deal with ya!” He defiantly set forth to eating his pie. It was with such force that his spoon chimed against the bowl every few seconds. “We got more ghosts than fairies ‘round here and if you Yanks visited more, you’d know that. As if magical fiddlin’ fairies popped outta the ground and granted wishes! Maybe then I could get my land back from Georgia, but no!” I cut my eyes over to where America was grinning like a loon, his plate empty and his hands on his perturbing stomach. “Buncha stupid, good-for-nothin’—”

“So, you wanna head out? I bet we’re gonna wanna stay at this waterfall for a while.” I glanced to where Thomas was still muttering and fished a twenty from my purse to hide under the plate. America did the same, thumping a hand down onto Thomas’s shoulder. “I’ll wish for ya some sanity, buddy. It’s the least I can do!”


	25. Blue

“Sh-Shelly!” I stopped on my way into the bathroom, squinting over to where America was standing with his hands held over his head. Considering the early-morning hour, I couldn’t quite see clearly, but I could definitely make out a small blue bottle held it Alfred’s right hand and a bottle of conditioner held in the other. After a few tired blinks, I raised my eyebrows in silent question and his surprised expression crumpled into a look of mild guilt. His teeth were bared in an imitation of an innocent smile. “It’s…Uh…” He glanced up to the blue bottle (very clearly some sort of hair coloring) and quickly hid it behind his back. “It’s not what it looks like.”

My brows rose even further and I gave a breathy snort, shaking my head as I stepped into the small bathroom and closed the door. Pursing my lips, I considered the situation before walking over to where America was standing anxiously. I eyed the conditioner before leaning down to turn the water on in the shower. “It’s not what it looks like, huh? Well, it  _looks_ like you’re pranking me, America.”

His bright blue eyes widened in the morning sunlight filtering in from the high window. “No! Naw, _I_  wouldn’t do that—” I shot him a look and he grimaced. “Okay, maybe I was gonna do that.”

Clicking my tongue, I turned around and set to getting my towels from the cupboard. Meanwhile, Alfred was rocking on his heels. I didn’t even have to say anything for him to feel chastised. “Blue’s not my color,” I commented. “Doesn’t really go with my complexion.”

“I—I—“

“Blue is definitely  _Johnny’s_ color though.”

I was so going to pay for this.

When I closed the cupboard door and looked back in Alfred’s direction, the guilt melted away into unadulterated glee. I had to smile as he began to bounce, grinning like maniac. He started to open his mouth for a laugh and I scrambled forward, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could let it out. My head shook, heart thundering in my chest. If this diversion was going to work then, America had to be quiet. For once in his life. Tall order.

“Shelly, you’re tossing New York under the bus?” His grin took a mischievous glint.

“ _Yes_ ,” I whispered in response. No one outside of that bathroom would hear our voices above the sound of the water splashing into the tub. “Yes, I am. Better him than me.”

“And you’re not gonna try and stop me.”

I shook my head, gesturing toward the shower. “Why do you think I have that running? I take my showers at night, America.” I gestured toward my still damp hair. “Which I’m gonna have to rewet my hair all because  _you’re_  a pranking little jerk.” He snickered. “Oh, and take all the towels out of the cupboard and put them in your room. Leave one.”

His brows pulled together in confusion.

“Who’s visiting us this morning, Alfred? Who was complaining non-stop on the phone last night?”

“Uh, Arthur is comin’ by—Oh  _damn_ , you’re scary with this stuff. The dude’s already gonna have blue hair. You’re gonna make him run out naked too?” I smirked, testing my fingers under the water to make sure it was warm enough. I glanced up at America’s stunned face. “We’re dying his hair and stealing his towel? Geez, remind me never to get on your bad side, Shell’s Bells.” He plopped down onto the toilet lid and watched as I got ready to stick my head under the faucet. “Ya think he realizes today’s April 1st?” 

I felt a smile pull at my lips. 

If only America knew what Johnny and I had planned for him…


	26. Shots

Hungary sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes were narrowed critically, observing the room and its occupants. Over to the right, Belgium and Lichtenstein were chatting, casting surreptitious glances toward the only man in the room. Belarus and Ukraine were being a fair bit more obvious in their looks with Belarus glaring openly at Egypt’s easy indifference. It was only a matter of time until her patience evaporated. Hungary, for her part, was trying to decide between irritation and amusement. She settled for the latter, a smirk pulling at her lips as she leaned forward. Egypt glanced to her, raising a brow. “You know, this was meant to be a girls’ night out.”

“I know,” he responded calmly. If she hadn’t known him for centuries…Hungary shook her head and watched him shift. Belarus, bless her, must have noticed the same. A nervous action. With the way the woman’s eyes narrowed and zeroed in on the twitch of his hand, Hungary knew that Natalya had figured him out.

“Ah, you ladies getting ready for a night out?”

“Get out, New York.”

John didn’t even flinch at Belarus’s order as he strode over to the bookshelf. This was, after all, his home. He could do whatever he wanted and none of the assembled Nations could say a word. “Yo, Belgium— you planning on a club or something?” He glanced toward Egypt, pursing his lips as he pulled a book off the shelf. “Shelly isn’t much of a dancer.”

Elizabeta barely withheld a snort, shaking her head just slightly at the way Belgium’s lips curved. Lichtenstein, too, was just barely smiling, but there was an almost impish light to her eyes. Oh boy, these men simply did not know what kind of den they were in, did they? Though, Hungary thought, with the way that New York was now lounging in the chair by the window, he looked none-to-bothered by the charged atmosphere. “You know this is girls’ night, correct? We won’t have to run you off?”

Johnny shrugged. “Sure. You’ve had this planned for months. I know.” He glanced up from the book he was idly flipping through. “I should warn you though, I have some connections. This is, after all, my town.”

“Is that a threat, State?”

“A word of caution,” New York waved off Belarus. “You think America isn’t going to have you all tailed? You think Russia hasn’t already put a couple of his agents on this house to track you the moment you step outside?” Belarus was growing more and more irritated with every word. “Hey. I told them to lay off and that I could handle it. I tried. You’re the ones who said you’d take her to a seedy establishment. This isn’t my fault.”

“That was joke,” Belarus growled. “We will not take the little Michelle anywhere she does not want to go.” Hungary smirked, leaning back to get a bit more comfortable for the show. On the other side of the seating area, Egypt slowly rose to his feet and pulled his phone from his pant pocket, striding over to the staircase, where he sat down again. Hungary narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “You are afraid that little Michelle will find a man and then you will be alone.” Low blow, Hungary winced. “We are here to get her out with the girls.”

John sat up, glancing toward the door where Egypt had disappeared. “Listen, Michelle can go out tonight, find a fella, and bring him back here for all I care about  _that_. If you think that she’s the type to find a fella at a club, ya got another thing comin’. Shelly ain’t much the clubbing type. You’d have an easier time of it if ya figured out what she likes rather than dragging her along on your midnight escapades.” Taking a deep breath, he tapped the cover of the book and settled back again. “Besides, it’s not me you have to worry about ‘ruining your night out.’” He gestured toward the entrance hall and smiled. “Why worry about little ol’ me when it’s Egypt that’s jealous?”

When Hungary turned back to the stairwell, she felt her mouth form into a surprised ‘o’ as she saw something she had never before in her centuries of knowing the ancient Nation. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with a smile brighter than she’d ever seen. Egypt’s smiles were few and far between, in varying degrees, but when he was truly happy—his smiles were like the sun. Hungary felt herself starting to smile, too, as Michelle came to stand two steps above him. She was smiling too, saying something that Hungary herself couldn’t hear.

“Upstairs,” Belarus commanded with a sharpness to her tone that cut the moment in half. “You are not wearing that frock to the club.”

“She is comfortable,” Egypt defended. Hungary laughed, shaking her head. The museum director was wearing a modest dress, more made for the forties than for the new century. Though she was never one to make others dress outside of their comfort zone, Hungary could see the glimmer of cleverness in Michelle’s eyes for what it was— a stalling tactic. “She should not change.”

“She won’t get into any of my clubs like that,” John added with a smirk. Michelle shot him a look, crossing her arms. “Shelly, c’mon. Just wear what Belarus brought you so that everyone can leave my house in one piece. I’m begging you.”

“I’m not—“ Belarus charged past Egypt with a determined grunt, moving to stand in front of Michelle with all the force of her brother. No matter how much shorter she was than the human, Belarus made it very clear that she was a force to be reckoned with. Michelle didn’t recoil. “Seriously? This is stylish, right?”

“We are all wearing our dresses. I purposefully chose a dress that would be comfortable for you. You are wearing it.” Natalya linked an arm with the human and began directing her back upstairs. “Belgium, Ukraine.” The two women glanced at each other before following them up the stairs, sending carefully amused glances toward Egypt as he glared. When Belarus reached the top, Hungary could hear her voice calling back down. “Egypt—if you want to play the guard dog tonight, then you go grab my brother and America from the car out front. And, little New York?” Hungary felt herself starting to laugh at Egypt’s surprised flinch. “You will get us into the club I want or I will do something very terrible.”

John sighed and lowered his head, muttering something under his breath. He rested a hand on Egypt’s shoulder and gave a half-hearted grin. “At least we all get to have fun now. Good thing you got style ‘cause you’re gonna need it where we’re going.”

Hungary watched as Lichtenstein started for the front door, likely going to drag the other Nations inside by the ears. Finally, Elizabeta pulled herself from the couch and made her way to Egypt. “Michelle liked Belarus’s dress. She dressed down on purpose, to bait Natalya. You know, you could have just  _asked_  to come along? You didn’t need to get Michelle involved in your schemes.”

Egypt shrugged, moving around her toward the kitchen. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick message. “Where would be the fun in that?” He stopped and Hungary raised her brows in question. “It was a nice dress though.” With that, he disappeared around the corner.

“Make sure to _tell_ her that,” Hungary reminded loudly with a laugh as she charged up the stairs to help make the next dress even better than the first. “If the first dress was nice, this one will be downright  **gorgeous,** EGYPT!” She smiled in victory when she heard something crash downstairs. If the boys were coming along on a girls’ night, then she was going to make the most out of every moment she could–every embarrassing dance move and every sideways glance. And, she decided as she peaked into Michelle’s bathroom and found the woman with her eyes closed and her lips already painted, if she could get Egypt to blush at any point, Hungary promised herself a shot. 

Or two. 


	27. I'm Fine

I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about me. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. That’s what I always told the Nations. I guess I figured that if I waved them off enough that they wouldn’t see me being crushed. I’m a smart enough woman. I can figure it out. I knew I was suffering from anxiety attacks. I knew that the panic and the nightmares and the heaviness in my chest was connected to something. I knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that there was a reason I couldn’t be in enclosed spaces. There was a reason for the flashbacks. I knew that there was a lot of lingering fear and anger in my heart. A sense of impending doom would sometimes sweep through my chest with such force that I could barely breath. I knew that I was suffering from depression, probably post-traumatic stress, and extreme anxiety. I knew that, but I never told the Nations. I never told Corey. Never told New York or Tennessee.

I didn’t want them to see me as someone who was weak. 

I didn’t want them to see me as someone who couldn’t handle it.

I had told myself for so long that I could handle everything. Then, when those thoughts would strike me, a new wave of uncontrollable emotions would hit—because I recognized them from another decade, another situation, another time.

There were times when I wanted to say something. Occasionally, I wanted to yell at Germany for everything I had to endure at his hands. How utterly frustrating it was to see him in modern times and be unable to truly hate him. Because I wanted to. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to hate him, and Japan, and Italy. Sometimes, I wanted so badly to  _hate_. I wanted to shout at Russia for coddling me, treating me like a doll who was constantly on the precipice of breaking. Even if I knew why he was protecting me, I—I didn’t need him treating me like I was going to break. I didn’t need that. I didn’t want that. 

And America! Sometimes, I just wanted to get  _away_  from him. Get away from the bright smiles and the fake laughter. The fake laughter was always the worst. I wanted to tell him to stop. To just  _stop_. Stop for a minute, please. Just stop and listen. Just stop and be quiet. Just stop. Just sit with me without saying anything, without trying to fix it. 

But I never did. And I never could.

I wanted to complain. I wanted to whine, to lament everything that I’d lost. My friends and my family. My life. My teaching. Everything and everyone. But, then the thought always hits me right before I start to speak—England’s brows raised in expectation—that he’s lost  _so much more_  than me. My complaints are pushed into dark recesses, damp spaces in my mind. How could I compare? Maybe he can read between the lines of my silence and my hastily brushed aside tears. As if he couldn’t see them. He never says anything, never offers an embrace, or a supportive hand on the shoulder. So I just shake my head and smile, refocusing on his tirade’s about Alfred’s loud mouth.

I continue to walk, tucking my auburn scarf into my coat as the light mist brushes my cheeks and hair. It’s early morning and the sun is just barely peeking through the brick buildings. I’ve never told John that I hate this street. I’ve never told him that I still sometimes see Prussia in the shadows. I never tell him that I can still feel my bare feet on the bricks. I never tell him that I can still feel Delaware’s blood on my hands or the burn of the chloroform. Even at this time of morning, there’s a light bustle to the world. I’m alone on the street though, as far as I can see, eyes downcast and anxiety pulling at my chest. Another day, another world meeting, another situation when I should really be at home. I wanted to be home. To go home. Another situation when they should really just leave me alone. Another thrill of inactive anger, choking fear, and unspoken words.

“Michelle!” I turn and see Johnny racing down the sidewalk with a couple coffees in hand and a paper bag stuffed under his arm. “I got you a piece of pie from Dino’s!” He strode up, handing off a coffee to me without noticing my dazed look. “Seriously, you know what? That prick Thomas can go screw himself. He said I got you into trouble. I did not!”  _Yes, he did._ “I paid that jerk back, didn’t I? Anyway, vanilla latte, no whip. I got an extra shot for ya ‘cause I’m a gentleman.” An arm was thrown around my shoulder and he pulled me along. “You’d tell me if something’s got you down, wouldn’t you?” I turned to see him considering me, the full power of his Statehood coming through. He wouldn’t accept my silence.

“Of course I would. Nothing’s wrong.” I smiled and took a sip of my coffee as we continued toward the subway. “Nothing at all.”


	28. Host

“You left the light on?”

Blearily, I turned to see him stepping into the room. There was a cautious lilt to his murmur, as if he were trying not to wake me if I were actually asleep. I hummed and yawned, stretching my arms over my head. He moved further into the room, looking more at-ease now that he knew I wasn’t quite asleep. Not thinking, I decided to explain. “You don’t like the darkness.” Ludwig stopped moving, hands stilling as he had moved to open his laptop.

“What?”

I opened my eyes and sank back into the pillows of the sofa. It’d been a long day. Dealing with the curator and managers had given me a headache by noon. Lunch with Alfred and Gilbert had made that headache turn into a full-blown migraine. I shut my eyes again and pressed my arm over my eyes to block out the light. “It’s raining and cold. You never turn the lights off. Italy told me. Doesn’t bother me.” I felt the edge of the sofa sink under his weight and then, a hand took mine. I sighed, pressing my head into the pillow. “Thanks for letting me stay over.”

Germany remained silent and I chanced opening my eyes again, looking up at him. His eyes were distant as he stared at the coffee table, lips pressed firmly together. He was still holding onto my hand, whenever or wherever he was in his memory. I wondered if he was lonely or worried. I wondered if he knew about Prussia’s hand. I wondered if I would ever be able to understand. I knew the answer to the latter two were as resounding as the beating of the rain on the windows.

Sighing, I squeezed his hand and smiled. “Are you going to work on paperwork then?”

“I have a meeting tomorrow. I should work on paperwork.”

Ludwig was hedging, I realized immediately. He was looking for an excuse not to work. If he actually planned on working, he would have said “yes” and left it at that. “A good host would make the guest dinner, you know.” He turned to look at me, the guest who was currently crashing on his couch. I knew that before it was time for bed, he’d have all my things moved to the bedroom. He’d sleep on the couch no matter how much I could and would argue otherwise. Ludwig could be kind that way. “A good guest would take the host out to dinner.”

“I am a good host,” he returned with a slight smile.

“I’m an even better guest.” Leveling him a look, I tried not to give any impression that my head was hurting too much for dinner out. He’d never know if I had anything to say about it. “Favorite local restaurant?”

“Take-away?” I could hear the compromise in his voice and I couldn’t help but smile even wider. Compromise. Such a wonderful step in friendships. He continued to hold to my hand and I never said anything. There was something about the darkness that bothered him, and I knew enough about that to not say a word in question. “Thank you for leaving the light on.” His voice was soft, little more than a low whisper. I nodded. 

I gave his hand a final squeeze and pulled away, watching as he stood. There was a shift then, though I couldn’t say how much had changed in those few scant moments. Something changed though, and it changed for the better.


	29. Survive

It was always hard not to be smug about perfection. There were days when John thought he was perfect, when he thought that he was above everything and everyone. Above the humans. Above the States. Above the clouds. He was the center of commerce, the center of government for a time—until Virginia’s stubbornness won out—and he was never quite one for backing down. 

John knew himself to be manipulative, selfish, and self-centered. A lethal combination. All nations work to their own benefit. All nations do whatever they have to do to survive. Those guys that say they’re not are lying. He’d been a Nation, too, once upon a time. He’d had a taste of that power, the thrill of it was intoxicating. 

If John were completely honest, he’d never really kicked that want for power. He liked the feel of it, the control it gave him. He’d been powerless before, at the hands of a war-maddened England. John had promised himself, a long time ago, that he would never be that powerless again.

Oh, but right now? He felt smug. There was something about the whole situation that left him feeling victorious, despite the death toll and despite how terrifyingly weak he felt. Maybe it was that weakness and the slight tremble in his legs that made seeing those Southern rebels on their knees all the more gratifying.

“We’re supposed to be united!” Alfred was shouting. John snorted, raising his chin a bit more. There was still a scar from the gunshot wound. He was still short-of-breath on most days. And his people were still paying dearly for the sheer stupidity of the Southern States. Their arrogance was enough to throw the whole continent into disarray.

Still, as he stood there watching them…He could see it. The influence that power had, the darkest gleam in the brightest of eyes. Georgia’s eyes were still narrowed dangerously, as if he would attack at any moment in his surrender. North Carolina’s teeth were gritted, jaw flexing with the effort it took to keep his big mouth shut. Texas was silent as the grave, making his anger even more palpable. John glanced to Alfred and saw his obliviousness. Or feigned obliviousness. New York had never really bought the act.

The Confederacy was a stand-in, in a way. New York could understand some of it. They missed the power, their National powers. They craved it. His craving for power had been subsumed and maintained by his finances. He held control in a way that the others did not. But them? Separate Nations to united States. From kings to soldiers. From power to powerless. And now, they were reigned in once more and told to ‘behave’ and ‘comply.’

In the blink of an eye, before anyone could move to stop him, Georgia had lost his patience. He was on his feet in an instant and had his gun poised in a blink.

“Stop,” America stated coolly. The air of innocence was gone, most of it was an act anyway. Alfred was far from innocent and the gravity of his glare was enough to prove that. “That is an order, Georgia.”

And the State stopped.

But the Nation still glared and his hand shook until America stepped forward and pulled the gun from his quivering fingers.

New York silently watched as Georgia sank back to his knees. John could see it, the desperation and the fear. And, somewhere deep down, the loathing. At the same time, he could also see Tennessee’s relief. Self-preservation and manipulation were the greatest assets of any Nation. No matter how stupid and self-serving, they’d made their decisions based on those instincts. They wanted their powers. They wanted control. They wanted it for their own reasons. And, some cruel part of New York smirked, they’d  _failed_. They thought they were perfect, that they were above it all. Above America. Above him? No, in the end, their money would come through Wall Street again.

Tennessee glanced his direction and New York’s smirk became a tad more pronounced. He’d exercise his power wherever he could. Dirt and bodies could make a person crave anything that would never make them powerless again. And if Alfred could command the union into existence? So be it. And if the Union of the United States would bring the wealth to New York?

So be it.

New York had long known– Nation or State– he’d do whatever he could to  _survive_.

Really, all States were nations in their own minds.


	30. See You Again

There were times when I felt I was forgotten, a wrinkled memory at the corner of the America’s consciousness. Sometimes, I could understand why I was forgotten and left to wither away in this pit-stop on the way to death. The visits grew more and more infrequent over the years. Maybe it was my mortality that scared them away, the stench of it crawled through the hallways. I hated it, but the people were nice and I was the last of my generation. America—my good friend—falsified my documents. These people, so much younger, thought that I was only  _ninety_. The thought never failed to make me give a dry chuckle. 

Ninety had been a spring-like age. At ninety, I had moved to Ivan’s house in Moscow after a rather long stint in Alexandria. My dearest, oldest Egypt had sent me away at last, the war growing too dangerous for him to suffer my presence. I’d thanked him with a trembling pat to the cheek and hobbled to Ivan’s waiting car. I’d arrived here twenty years later, and Alfred put me in this nursing home. Often, it felt like he put me here to forget, just like he did with all those things in his closet.

I lost contact with Egypt when I was one hundred and twenty. We’d come such a long way that I couldn’t fault him for forgetting a simple birthday. Instead of growing bitter, I looked at the pictures that lined my worn dresser (of us and others) and I remembered the journey. Sometimes, most of the time, the journey is better than the end. I missed him. And, one evening while I sat watching the newest reports of battles on the Russian fronts, I recalled a time when Egypt had warned me of my own mortality.

“You should not be around us, Michelle. We will only abandon you in the end.”

Sometimes, it felt that way. It felt like he was right. As if I had been stuffed into another cellar and the key thrown away. Sometimes, that nursing home felt so  _suffocating_. Even when the young, pretty—oh, was I ever that young? or that pretty?—nurses would take me out into the sunshine, it was stifling. “Your grandson will visit soon, Miss Michelle. Any day now.”

My grandson. No, my America. And he wasn’t going to visit some old woman in a nursing home in the middle of a war. I knew that. They knew that, and I could tell by the smiles on their faces. So, they would take me back inside and gently close the door, telling me to rest. All I did was rest. All I did was watch the television of some news while worries floated through my head of friends long lost to their significance. An old woman who used to matter to the world, but was set aside by it when the time came. 

And time always came for me.

Time was my closest companion and my oldest enemy.

It was not until twenty-three years into my stay, my cozy room outfitted with books and maps and little presents from random international deliveries, that I received my first call. It was not the call I wanted, but perhaps it was the one I needed. One hundred and fifty-three. I lifted the phone and pressed it to my ear, sighing into the receiver. Phones had grown more advanced, down to specific GPS locations. He was calling from right outside the front doors. My eyes rose from the tired linoleum to the streaked mirror. “Hello, Arthur”

“You sound as if you’ve  _aged_ , Michelle.”

“You’re as pleasant as ever. Did you ever get bifocals?”

He never came inside. I stared at my reflection as we spoke, counting the wrinkles—which now far outnumbered my scars. Arthur had never been comfortable with aging, always arguing that he was always fighting fit and railing against all notion of mortality. My own clear-as-day death knell was uncomfortable for him. “Have you spoken to Alfred?” He knew the answer. He could read me as well as anyone. I had lived with him for a time, when I was much younger, working at the British Museum. That was some fifty years ago. “He feels he did this to you, you know.”

“Did what? Grant me blessed longevity? No, even he doesn’t have that kind of power.”

“Yes well. I supposed we are all at fault for that.”

“Sorry for being still alive then.” I narrowed my eyes at the image in the mirror, huffing with irritation. Trust America to pull something like this. And he was doing it to avoid seeing me. We both knew that. Arthur said nothing, staying outside of the nursing home in the sweltering heat of December. I could imagine his hand raking through his sweat-dampened hair. “You tell that patriotic brat that I refuse to die until he sucks it up and comes to tell me bye.” He snorted at my tone, recognizing its vehemence.

“Michelle…” Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back into the pillow the young nurses had positioned behind my head. One would be due soon, to help me bathe and to turn down the sheets, and to give me my medications. Like clockwork. How close was I to twilight? I let out a breath. “I will miss you. If that is what you have been waiting on…” I laughed a bit, smiling despite myself. Even after all these years, there were still moments when he could surprise me with his kindness.

“You came all this way to stand outside and tell me goodbye?”

“I can’t—”  _see you like that._ “Someday, I will see you—” I tutted and shook my head at his hesitation.

“For a thousand years, remember? I’m just a blink, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled and I could hear some shuffling in the background, and a car alarm. I could hear that same alarm coming from the parking lot outside my French doors. “You’re more than a blink.” With that, he hung up and I never spoke to Britain again.

Time passed, more than I wanted or expected. The young nurses became older, and after about five or six years more, my health finally began to fail. I met this with relief. The days grew longer and longer, and my weary mind drew and more into memories. My family, long gone. My friends, gone. My whole generation, gone. It seemed that the days grew longer in the absence of anyone to speak to, lonelier. On the homefront, for a period of about two years, the times grew difficult. The nursing home staff grew thin and tired, drawn from lack of resources and sleep. The air outside grew drier and the green grass shriveled. Dust tattered the window and dusted the floor. But that time passed and I remained. One hundred and sixty-one.

I could see how people went insane after being around the Nations.

Maybe I was insane for a time. I can’t remember any more. 

One hundred years prior, I  _could_  remember America’s promise: “I’ll take care of you.”

I wasn’t bitter. I couldn’t be. My time was growing shorter even as the days grew longer, and I couldn’t be angry. It was better that he forget me. That they _all_ forget. It was better for them to avoid the mortal and those of us that had tasted immortality and found it wanting. It was better that they not witness the end of me. Oh, but we had come such a long way. And I had seen the world and travelled so many roads. 

How could I fault America—or New York, or Ivan, or Egypt—when I had experienced so much?

The young nurse stepped into my room with a wide smile, looking far less haggard than I had seen him in years before. “How is our oldest resident, Miss Michelle?” He grinned at me, and I thought I saw a ghost-like smile staring back at me. He looked like Jessie, in a way. I’d told him that too many times to count. “You look beautiful tonight. Did Denise do your hair?” I hummed in affirmation as he flipped on the television. My longevity had been attributed to medical advancements, but I still do not believe that many bought such an excuse. My long life was inexcusable. “It starts soon. I figured you would want to see it.”

I shifted in bed, trying to sit up a bit more. My arms were weaker than ever before. I wondered why. “They—they did it then? They got there?” He nodded excitedly and found the right channel, gesturing to the screen. There, in the crisp hologram image, was the surface of Mars. And there, in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, was the international flight crew performing entry procedures. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He laughed and set about preparing the medications for the night. “They always wanted to do it. About damn time after—after all these years—got up there.”

I was proud of them then, for all the wars and famine and terrible things I had seen. This, this was the start of something utterly new, something truly uncharted and unprecedented and why was my chest fluttering like that?

“Shelly?”

Instinct alone pushed my head to the left to the figure in the door. Something felt wrong and maybe it felt right? I couldn’t quite say. Off. Something felt off, but there was this impatience in my chest that made me think that maybe—just maybe one hundred and thirty was just  _enough_. And there Alfred stood, finally. He looked older and somehow darker, and somehow a little lost. But there he was. Same leather jacket and a hesitant smile, glasses gleaming in the light of his greatest achievement.

“I was hoping that— that I’d see you again.”


	31. Dirt Road Anthem

“I guess I just never pictured you as a country fan.”

I snorted at his tone, pulling the t-shirt over my head. With a smirk, I tossed it at his face. He didn’t even bother to remove it. Most likely, he was too tired. His flight had been at some god-awful hour of the morning and he had trudged in about two hours ago, falling onto my bed in heap. He hadn’t moved since. “And _I_  never pictured  _you_  as a rap fan, but that Jay-Z concert proved otherwise.” I pulled the black sleeves onto my arms and began buttoning up the front of the blouse. “You knew every word. Really, you don’t have any room to criticize.”

“He wrote a song about me. And I wasn’t  _criticizing_. Just making an observation is all.” Johnny pulled the crumpled shirt from his face and gave me a look, shaking the t-shirt in his hand. “I like whatever body wash you’re using. Smells nice.” I grinned over at him, pulling my hair from the collar of the shirt, falling heavily onto the edge of my bed. He sat up and prodded my side with his foot, pinching my skin with his toes. I swatted at him, rolling my eyes. “First time I’ve seen you in jeans for a while.”

“Tommy told me to dress down.”

“ _That_  is _not_  dressing down, doll face.” His fingers tugged at the sleeve of my shirt. I sighed. “Put on some heels with that and I might have to carry a bat.” I pulled the heels on and stood back up, walking to the mirror. “Corey’s gonna end up knocking some guy out tonight.”

“Stop,” I laughed and pushed myself to my feet again. “This isn’t anything unusual.” I moved toward the rack of jewelry and forwent my usual white pearls for a strand of black. I took the delicate matching earrings and moved to sit on the chair in front of the window. “We’re meeting him at five, before the show. There’s a dive nearby. Show’s at seven.” Johnny waved me off with a groan. “If you don’t want to hear my out-loud planning then go make sure Momma and Corey’re ready.”

He didn’t move. “Nah, they won’t be late. ‘Sides, Corey’s still got it in for me. I’m hiding.”

“He does not,” I snorted. I leaned forward and brushed all my hair toward the ground, threading my fingers through the strands. I caught a few snags and grimaced, but continued the process. I gathered it in its usual spot and I raised my head again. It was with practiced ease that I pulled it up into my fingers, twisting it about. “You’re being paranoid. It’s not like he’s gonna clock you again. That was ages ago.”

“He hasn’t mellowed in his old age.” Laughing lightly, I tugged and patted at the bun to make sure it was smooth. That whole debacle was only three years ago. And New York still hadn’t gotten over it. “It’s not paranoia if he threatened me not to ‘try anything funny tonight’ when I got here. Dude’s got issues.” That ‘dude’ was just as into this apparently rivalry as Johnny, and they had kept it going. My hands worked blindly over my head, twisting the hair tie around. John sat up and stared at me for a moment before huffing. “Can’t you just leave your hair down tonight? It’s supposed to be a fun time out, not a business meeting. You’re starting to look like a funeral home director.”

“I’m a museum director. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Johnny stared at me, a stubborn glint in his eyes.

“I can have a fun time with my hair  _up_.”

John grimaced, shrugging his shoulders a bit. There was a guilty crook to his lips. “I mean, yeah…but c’mon, Michelle! Let your hair loose for a night. Literally let your hair down.” I paused, pressing my tongue to my front teeth and narrowing my eyes. It  _was_ supposed to be a night out, a much needed break from the usual chaos and pandemonium. My hair had grown several inches in the past year, well-past my shoulders. After a moment, I reached up and pulled the tie from my hair. It fell to my shoulders. Self-consciously, I pushed it out of my face and pulled at the strands, standing to move in front of the mirror. I puzzled out a part, noting Johnny’s triumphant smile. “You wear it up too much.”

“And you need a haircut.” I moved to grab my purse. He rolled up from the bed, clucking his tongue with a critical glint to his blue eyes. “I’m serious.”

“I like this lumbersexual look thing that’s going wild right now. I look hot.”

“Nobody pulls off that look as well as Kentucky, Johnny, and you know it.” I smiled at the indignant squawk that seemed to echo throughout the house. I flicked the light off as I grabbed my new cane from where it was leant against the doorframe. “Actually, no. I’d say Louisiana pulls it off really well too, but it’s not on purpose with him…It’s a toss-up.” New York grumbled something under his breath as we moved into the kitchen. Momma was sitting at the counter, her brows raised in question. Johnny was stomping, shaking the pictures on the wall as he moved. I shrugged. “Johnny thinks he can pull off the lumbersexual look.”

Momma, bless her, snorted into her sweet tea and shook her head. Her own hair is grayer than ever before. “Sorry, Johnny-honey. It’s not really…your style.”

“I have plenty of style!”

“Knock it off, Yankee. Throw a tantrum somewhere else.”

“Oh, _you’re_  here. I was hoping you got lost in the backwoods. You sound more and more like the hick. You hanging out with Tommy more or something?” Corey threw the State a rude gesture from the couch, grinning like a loon. It didn’t seem anything would dampen his good mood. The band we were going to see was one of his favorites. This night felt like it was more for him than anyone else. Maybe it was. Tommy knew Corey was heading out in a couple months…“Well, are we going? Tennessee’s meeting us there. And I know I look just as good as I did twenty years ago, so we’re good to go.”

“Not sure I’m ever going to get used to that,” Momma commented with a smile toward New York. “This whole thing is still a little…strange.”

“No kidding. We’re going to a Grand Ol’ Opry concert with Tennessee personified.”

“With New York personified. Who’d’ve thought?” I gave Johnny’s shoulder a small shove as we headed to the door. “For John, this is like pulling teeth.”

“It’s country…”

“You made me sit through Jay-Z. You’re dealing with it.”

“There was no  _sitting_ involved. You were dancing and yelling with everyone else! And you enjoyed it!”

“NY! Shut up and get in the truck!”

“Corey!”

“Boys!”

* * *

What was that about it being a ‘relaxing night out?’ Nothing is ever relaxing when Tennessee and New York are at opposite sides of the table in loud dive bar on a particularly rambunctious Tuesday night. They’d been bickering since we’d arrived. Tennessee was being purposefully inflammatory, sending me grins and smirks every time John turned his head. I just laughed, thoroughly amused by and used to the entertainment. It took a bit before Momma settled into the routine of ignoring them, focusing her attention on the baseball game on a television nearby. It was only when Corey got embroiled in a debate that she tuned back in and leaned over to me to get caught up.

“What’re they chittering about now?”

“Sports.”

Momma sat up, eyes lighting up with interest. I smiled, watching as she got caught up in their conversation. As a lifelong Vols fan, she could argue with the best of them concerning college football. And, as a lifelong Atlanta Braves fan, she knew Major League Baseball better than she knew practically anything. “Now wait a minute! You can’t say that they’re better than the Yankees!”

Johnny nearly choked.

“Mrs. Daniels—”

“Say what you want, Tommy, but they had some of the greatest players to ever play the sport!”

John stared in disbelief, glancing over to me as if I would give him some sort of hint as to what was going on. “Am I being punked?” I shrugged, grinning at the genuine smile that spread over his face. “Yes! Finally someone who actually  _knows_  sports.” Corey’s ‘hey now!’ went ignored while John threw an arm over my mother’s shoulder. “I never said my teams were infallible, hick squared. All I said was that Rivera was a boss closer. That’s  _all_  I said. Then you two went to town on how I didn’t have the Dodgers anymore.”

“Rivera  _was_  a great closer,” Momma agreed with a sage nod. I couldn’t help but notice the nervous look Corey was shooting me. He knew how Momma could get about baseball. Glancing at his nearly empty glass of beer, I pulled myself up out of the bench and lingered at the edge of the table. “Goose Gossage was better.” Laughing at New York’s dropped jaw, I shook my head and moved to the bar. Momma’s laughter seemed to light the place up. When I got to the bar, I turned to see John’s radiant grin. He looked utterly triumphant, sitting taller than he had all evening. Tommy pawed at his forehead, grimacing.

“Don’t encourage him, Mrs. Daniels.”

“With you and Corey ganging up on him, and being wrong to boot, what was I supposed to do?”

New York cackled, throwing his head back with mirth. Despite himself, I saw Tennessee turn his head away and smile. His eyes flickered to me, and his dimples became more prominent. I grinned in return, ordering another ale for Corey and another beer for Johnny. A moment later, I felt a hand at the small of my back. Blinking in surprise at the familiar touch, I turned and found Tommy leaning on the counter next to me, elbows resting back on the counter. I relaxed. His attention was fixed elsewhere momentarily before he focused on me again.

“Looks like New York’s found a kindred spirit.” His eyes rolled as he seemed to watch the blossoming comradery. There was a certain fondness there though, under the disbelief. “They’ll be talkin’ baseball for the rest of the night.”

“Well, Momma can’t talk sports with me or Corey. Corey doesn’t know baseball as well as he acts like he does.” 

Tennessee was quiet for a moment, leaning on the bar with a contemplative look on his face. Then, he turned to me and smiled. “It’s Jason Aldean.”

“Huh?” 

He grinned a little wider, reaching up to scratch at his curls. “It’s Jason Aldean. He’s coming to the Opry tonight.” I felt my heart sputter at the way Tommy was smiling, green eyes sparkling in the low lighting of the bar. He laughed, gripping my shoulder. “I was able to pull some strings. Jason’s gonna play with Eric. If anybody deserves a surprise, it’s Corey.” 

Jason Aldean was Corey’s absolute favorite musician. Since high school. Jessie and Corey used to sing Dirt Road Anthem at the top of their lungs driving down the highway with the windows down. He’d listened to Don’t Give Up On Me for hours and hours on end after he broke up with one of his high school girlfriends. I could remember the chorus because it had been blasted through the house for the better part of a month. They played See You When I See You at Jessie’s funeral. 

But that was in another world. 

Here, Corey and Jessie were still singing and playing imaginary guitars to She’s Country when they’ve had too much Blue Ribbon.

I let out an incredulous laugh at Tommy’s exuberant laughter.

“He’s going to freak out.”

“Yep,” he replied proudly. “Jess-man’s meetin’ us there with Georgia.”

“Jessie’s–You’ve gone all out.”

Tommy shrugged and repositioned his Vols cap, grabbing the drinks from the bar as they slid toward us. “Maybe.” 


	32. Classroom

I stood at the front of the classroom with my back to the snickering students. My whole body was frozen, the breath knocked out of me. My hand quivered where it held the chalk to the board, pulling back just a bit so that I didn’t mess up the notes I’d written—the notes I had so painstakingly written. The notes I spent the whole previous evening drafting. I lowered my head and stared down at my saddle shoes. The crisp black-and-white contrasted starkly with the dark brown tiles under my feet. My eyes squeezed shut as a pleaded for patience. “What was that, Peter?”

“Just sayin’— I’m just sayin’ that this is all a waste of time!”

There was a round of giggles.

“History sucks and you learn nothing from it!” Another voice jeered—Michael Ridebank, I recognized. I lowered my hand from where it hovered over the board, fisting the chalk in the middle of my palm. “Like Pete said! It’s a waste of time.” There was a spitting sound and then the dull smack of a spitball hitting the floor behind me. At least half the class laughed, but I could sense the room growing a bit more uncomfortable since I’d not turned around yet. “What the hell will this do for me, eh? It ain’t gonna help me—or any other John out there—run a business or kill a man!”

Turning just a bit, I kept my eyes down. I could remember this argument. In another time. In another place. I gripped the chalk a little tighter and pulled my shoulders back, raising my head. “History is more than capable of killing a person, Michael. That’s all it’s ever done.”

The giggling stopped. 

Over in her secluded corner, Polly was wringing her hands. She never did well with tension. Too much of it at home. Four boys, eight girls—each with their own reasons for hating that intense, challenging, baiting silence that settled over our little closet of a classroom.

“I won’t argue with you. History? It’s _terrible_. Oh Lord, it sucks, as you said. You know why?” I felt energy building up in my chest as I began to move, staring back at Michael as his arms crossed petulantly. He at least knew not to interrupt me. “History is only terrible because people don’t value it. People don’t learn from it. They don’t see the value in it, even when they’re creating it. Do you get what I’m saying?” I moved to the desk and leaned against it, crossing my arms. Another late night, another stack of papers. “We’ve already had one World War—We’ve already had one Great War. Is that stopping this? We’ve already seen it again and again.”

“What good does it do me to write a paper about something some idiot from a thousand years ago? Nothing!” Peter actually threw a crumbled piece of paper and pointed at me, an action that had a couple of his classmates lookin’ mighty uncomfortable and two of them glaring him down. Belligerence was one thing. Disrespect was quite another, apparently. I held firm, not backing down from the challenge. I’d reached the end of my rope today. 

I was too tired, too riddled with worry and nightmares.

“That war I had you write about? A thousand years ago, huh? Really? A thousand?” I raised my voice just a bit to gain their attention, hardening my tone just enough. “Is that the one you’re referring to? Do you remember the prompt, Peter? Michael? Louis? Polly?” No one answered me. No one dared. A tiny, silent classroom in Brooklyn. And I was shaking in my saddles. “‘All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent.’”

“Yeah, well it means jack to—”

“Thin ice, Michael.” I narrowed my eyes. He glared, almost seeming to snarl as he fell back in his seat. “Peter.” I turned my attention to him again. “That idiot? Who was it?” Peter looked away, jaw muscles twitching.

“Thomas Jefferson,” Polly’s quiet voice murmured.

“He was once president of our United States— the same United States that your brother swore to protect. The same that people have died for. The very same that many choose to take up arms and defend. The  _United States_ , Michael. Home. Thomas Jefferson said that. ” 

I pushed myself up off the desk and strode to the first row of desks, leaning heavily against one. It was an intimidation tactic. I couldn’t tell if it was working. 

“Einstein: ‘The world is in greater peril from those who tolerate or encourage evil than from those who actually commit it.’ Burke: ’All that is required for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.’  _Plato:_  ‘The penalty good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.’ He’s the one from a thousand years ago!”

The class was silent—some stunned and some visibly angry at my tirade.

I waited, breathing heavily. I wondered if I looked the part of a ranting professor. It’d been so long since I’d gone on a teacherly rant that I almost forgot where I was. I stepped back, brushing my hands down my plum skirt. “You think humanity thought of that lesson because of sunshine and daises, gentlemen? You think we’ve learned that lesson from–I don’t know–What you call useless history? A thousand years of it? Two thousand? No… I’m sure you all know what happened, what happens, what’s happening.Words of wisdom like that don’t carry over centuries for no good reason.” They were silent. Contemplative. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. Angry. Hateful silence. “That’s history. It may be terrible and sometimes boring and you can view it as a waste of time. But you think you don’t actually  _learn_  anything from it?” 

The didn’t answer me.

“Every single thing you do or think, every single experience you have, every relationship,  _everything_ stems from history in one way or another.” I sucked in a breath and waited before deflating. My head shook and I sank back, looking tiredly at the clock. This was going to be a long day. And I had to meet Johnny tonight. I sighed, looking at the petulant sixteen year olds with too much history facing them. 

“Sad thing is…When we don’t learn, we’re taken back to school to learn it again.”


	33. Battle

Alfred was hopping up and down about fifteen feet ahead of the group as we made our way down the dimly lit Montreal street. His laughter seemed to light up the whole street though with each person in sight smiling largely at his excitement. It was an evening in early June and the sun had just set on the storm-damp city. Beside me, Canada sported a small smile, eyebrows raised as he watched America bound down the sidewalk. He’d shown up at our hotel an hour before, his voice as close to a command as he seemed to get. “We’re going out!” Now, myself and about eight Nations were making our way through downtown with only the promise of a “good time” to go on.

“Not that I don’t believe you, mate, but…Where are we going?” Arthur walked behind us, thumbs looped into the pockets of his vest. “A night out on the town isn’t quite like you, Matthew.”

“You don’t know what I get up to when you all aren’t here,” Canada countered. I smiled when that earned a ‘fair enough’ from the peanut gallery. “There’s something in town tonight I think you guys will enjoy.” He gestured toward America bounding around the corner ahead. “Some maybe more than others.”

“He already knows where we’re going then?”

“Oh yeah.”

We stopped outside of what looked to be a performance space of some kind. A strange sound could be heard from inside—pounding bass and yelling voices. Matthew stepped forward to hold the door open while Feliciano came to my side, looping an arm over my shoulders. “Welcome to the Riot. I figured we could join in the battles.” There was a celebratory cheer from inside what I assumed to be the theatre. Then, out of nowhere, whatever music was thundering inside changed to a very familiar sound. Cymbals and sax. Trumpets and clarinet. Swing. I felt the entire group stand a bit straighter while Alfred barked a laugh at our expressions, heading straight for the door.

“Swing? A swing battle? Are you kidding?”

Matthew shrugged, gesturing inside. “Just join in, if you want. Or you can watch from the stage.”

When we entered the theatre, the entire crowd was whooping and clapping along. There were two main groups on either side of the dancefloor. The energy was infectious, making everyone grin and bounce excitedly. I thought I caught a glimpse of Alfred joining the group on the right, clapping a small Asian man on the shoulder. A blur of white moved past us, falling in easily with the group on the left. Ivan? Feliciano pulled me toward the group on the left, grabbing a muttering Germany to be pulled along as well. I shot him an exasperated look. “How likely is it that Ivan and Alfred end up having a dance off?”

“Extremely,” Ludwig sighed. The music shifted from the traditional swing music to—

A wild cheer erupted.

“You’re kidding!”

Everyone fell into the beat. One man slid across the floor, smooth as syrup. “Watch me! Watch me!” I laughed, seeing the way that Alfred’s face lit up and his body moved back and forth to the beat before he threw himself between the groups—swinging this way and that with expert precision in his footwork. It was a tap move, mixed with some incredibly hip hop leg work. All to the “whip and nae-nae” song. I heard Feli laugh merrily at Alfred’s antics, tugging at Germany’s arm all the while. The audience was clapping wildly when Alfred slid back out of the battle, beaming excitedly.

“There goes Ivan!”

 The song changed again as Ivan moved this way and that. I glanced to where his eyes had cut over to the audience, catching sight of a few other Nations intermingled here and there. Canada was among them, settled on the edge of the stage, clapping along. Belarus sat behind him, head by his ear as she spoke to him. He nodded along just before Ivan jumped into the center.

I laughed so hard that I had to brace myself on Arthur for support. He chuckled, shaking his head and crossing his arms at Ivan’s clear one-up-manship. The large Nation was almost too nimble for his size, feet sliding across the floor and arms moving in swift motions until he swept forward and held a hand out to one of the random women. She was swung easily around, right into the dance without any difficulty whatsoever.

The music shifted again and suddenly Ivan disappeared back into the group again, two dancers from the other side taking over again. Back to swing. Alfred was clapping along, speaking to France who was grinning at his side. He nodded at whatever was said, sending me a wink across the floor as he threw an arm around the girl next to him. One of the black dancers flew forward, nearly running into the front line of our group, landing on his knees before back-flipping away. He easily grabbed a woman’s hand from his group, planted a kiss on it before transitioning perfectly into the lindy hop.

“Alfred’s in his element!” I called to Arthur.

He snorted. “Anything that’s loud— What—”

In response to the opposing team’s lindy, two very familiar forms swung out onto the floor—Italy and Germany. I felt my jaw drop as the music transitioned into some Michael Jackson music drew enormous cheer from the energetic crowd. Italy, honestly, was so joyful in his dance that he’d won nearly everyone over as Germany kept to his toes, just barely keeping hold of Italy as he cutely stepped back and wagged his finger, drawing huge support from the audience.

Alfred appeared out of nowhere, an uproarious laugh echoing even over the music as he jumped up and touched his toes before landing on his knees. The music transitioned into swing again, as two of the human dancers behind him matched his moves. I clapped wildly, hardly able to believe what I was seeing as France joined in the mix, blowing a kiss toward us as he took control. I’d never seen France dance before, especially not with so much happiness. Just before he transitioned off, he pointed straight across the space at Arthur with a challenging smirk.

“Oh my giddy  _aunt_ …Fine.” I glanced over to see Arthur shaking his head as he pulled his suit jacket off. He began to hand it to me but pursed his lips and then handed it down to one of the young women sitting on the floor. The music transitioned again into another hip-hop tune. I recognized it as one that John always played louder than all the others. Arthur pulled down on his vest and jumped into the mix. I leaned forward and held my hands on my knees, watching as Arthur found a back and forth rhythm across the floor. Ivan arrived at my side a moment later, grinning from ear to ear. I saw Alfred whooping on the other side, pumping his fist in there. 

“Get goin’ OLD MAN!”

“SHUT UP!” 


	34. Goner

“That young man’s a goner. Head-over-heels for a girl. Look at ‘em.” I didn’t look up, knowing from experience when to keep my head down. I’d become terribly accustomed to it, keeping myself in the shadows and out of the way. A light breeze trailed through the market, pulling at my too-long hair. It’d been growing since I arrived, fitting the customs of this time—this place. “He’s got it something terrible, I think.” I reached for a ribbon and thought of the tightness around my waist that I just couldn’t seem to grow accustomed to: a corset keeping me short of breath. “What’s her name again?” Thinking of the way the ribbon caught the light, I wondered if perhaps my students would be distracted by such a trinket.

“I’ll take this, please.” I took a couple coins from my penny purse and handed them over to the vendor. He eyed me, looking me up and down. I stiffened, knowing that his once-over was far from proper. There was an etiquette to this society that he was blatantly disobeying. It made me uncomfortable. “Do you have another like this?”

“Her name’s a bit of a mystery. She just appeared one day, living with that Jones boy. You know the one. The whole affair is rather scandalous.”

“That’s her?”

“Daniels. Michelle Daniels,” one of the women whispered. Stage whispered. I could hear. “That’s her name.”

The vendor raised his brows, amusement seeming to tug at his lips. “You the person they’re talkin’ about, darlin’?” When I didn’t answer, he just shrugged his shoulders and handed over the single ribbon, not even bothering to answer my question. My stomach was already in knots, so I didn’t argue it. I turned and began down the dirt road, wanting nothing more than to be back at home before darkness fell and it became even more dangerous in the streets.

I’d been here for three years, since 1907. I didn’t know how I arrived, only that I did. I’d been thrown from 2015 to 1907—into the house of a young man with bright blue eyes and an indomitable smile. And, for a while, I’d thought that someday I’d go home, but that hope died after my second year. The blond-haired, blue eyed man escorted me up to his brother’s home in Brooklyn, New York from his house in Washington. He said that he couldn’t stay with a woman like that. So, I’d been left with John J. Jones, whom no one dared cross in any manner.

Not that he was a bad person. No, John was a very nice and welcoming man. He was also intimidating and, though he tried to hide it from me, he had friends in very low places. And very high places. In general, as Miss Gaynor told me once, “John is not a man to be trifled with.” I believed it. 

But I was an unmarried woman living alone with a man. No matter how many explanations were given—he’s my cousin or somesuch—I was always the center of Brooklyn gossip. Even my students were bringing up the things their mothers said behind their fans.

“Are you really unmarried?”

I was getting tired of it.

I was getting really tired of all of it.

“I want to move west,” I told John over our evening meal, the ribbon tied into my loose bun. He looked up, mouth dropping open. “Or move south. Or move somewhere else.” I didn’t want to live in Brooklyn anymore. Out west, maybe I could teach. But then, I didn’t know if I was strong enough. The culture was so different that I wanted to cry more often than not. “I don’t want to be here, John. No offense meant to you. I can’t stay here any more.” 


	35. Immortality

_And I could give you my devotion_

_Until the end of time_

_And you will never be forgotten_

_With me by your side._

“Shelly?” She didn’t respond, but the steady beeps were enough of an answer. “Shelly, please. C’mon. You can fight this. You’re the strongest damn person I know. Please, Michelle.” John held her hand a little tighter, remembering how frail she’d looked when they brought her home. As gently as he could, he reached up and brushed the limp brown hair from her face. She didn’t move. She looked so pale. New York wondered if maybe this was hell. “God, Michelle, fight. Please.”

He tried to keep from sobbing, raising his chin as he looked away from her toward the door. He could see Russia’s shoulder, tall and ominous, standing sentry. New York tried to keep a rein on the heat that flooded his chest, rage unlike any he had felt before. To hide from it, he looked down to where he held her hand, leaning down to rest his forehead against her cold skin. “Damn it, Shelly. I love you so much.” He heaved a shaky breath, silently pleading with whatever God that had created all this. Then, the thought struck that maybe it was all their fault anyway. “I can’t—”

They brought her home, covered in cuts and bruises.

Unconscious. Gaunt.

So much damage had been done to her right leg and arm that, even if she recovered, she’d never be able to use them the same. The human doctors said that she didn’t have good chances. When the doctor told them that, her mother had collapsed. John had caught her before she hit her knees. They were in the cafeteria with America now. America. Damn Alfred for this. New York tensed, cursing his own thoughts. Damn Tennessee for finding her. He fought back another onslaught, shaking and gripping her hand tighter.

In all his years, he’d never wished so much to be mortal. His hands tightened around hers, silently pleading his whispers for mercy.

God, he hated them.

They did this.

He hated himself.

He should’ve been there.

New York rocked back and forth, trying to keep control. He always had control. He needed control. This was so far out of his control. What had she gone through? How scared was she? Who did this? Who was going to  _pay_? Part of him wanted to bait Russia to the parking lot behind the hospital, just to throw a few punches. John couldn’t help the sob that tore apart the silence.

It was never so silent with her. He didn’t know if he could take that silence again. He raised his head and looked up at her face. Damn it, he’d take all the silence in the world if she’d just wake up. He realized…

“Doll face,” he whispered, rising up from the seat he’d claimed hours before. “Sweetheart. Doll face. Michelle.” Pressing his lips to her forehead, he tried not to imagine what it would be like if she didn’t wake up. Because, damn it, that wasn’t a possibility. “ _Please_  don’t leave me.”

America ran away to hide in the cafeteria. Russia wouldn’t enter the damn room. England was at the Annex. All those bastards abandoned her. Like cowards. Hell, Tennessee was the only other one that would enter the room. Even then, he’d just mutter something about “work to do,” and bail.

John kept brushing her hair back, tapping her forehead with his thumb. He’d give up immortality for her.

Did anyone else know that? She had to know that. Had he ever told her? No, he didn’t dare. But he’d do it. Trade immortality. Give it up entirely. He didn’t want to live forever. Did Egypt ever do that? John closed his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw, pressing his face into her hair, cradling her face in his hands. Even that– that– even  _he_ wasn’t here.

“Please come back to me.”


	36. Hats

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I glanced around at the steaming street, noting the way that the mid-afternoon rain evaporated into the evening sunlight. We were in a part of town that I had never ventured before, a bit more worn and tried than other places they’d taken me to. If it weren’t for Feliciano’s happy humming and Veneciano’s presence behind us, I might have felt intimidated. At my question, Romano snorted and I glanced back to see him grinning. “Sorry I didn’t mean—”

“I’m sure, bella signora.” Feli whispered, sending me a wink. He guided me over a few uneven stones. They’d told me to wear comfortable shoes and a skirt. “It’s a surprise. Not many people know it’s here.” He pressed a finger to his lips and gently pulled me to a stop in front of a small alley. In the shadows between the buildings, I could see people standing in line. They were speaking in hushed tones, excitedly whispering and murmuring to each other as the sun fell and the heat faded. “What do you think, Romano?”

We settled at the back of the line, while the personification of South Italy himself leaned against the wall. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Don’t know why everyone insists on whispering.”

“Why  _are_  we whispering?”

“Beats the hell outta me,” Romano smirked. He flicked his eyes to me and it seemed to be said in good humor, set on riling Feli.

Feli made a waving motion. “Because it is a secret! It’s always been a secret.” He switched into Italian, seeming to admonish Veneciano while I could only make out bits and pieces of his words. I did make out his nickname for me and he gestured in my direction when he said it. I raised my eyebrows in question. I glanced toward the line behind him, noting the dress of the women—skirts and flat shoes, victory rolls and red lips. Most of the men, including my two escorts, wore hats on their heads and ties around their necks.

“What—”

Music began to stir a hum from the far end of the alley and the whispers grew into excited whoops, all semblance of secrecy lost. I could hear the thum of the bass and the wail of the trumpet and trombone. I watched with wide eyes as the door at the end of the alley opened and people began to move inside, at the far end of whatever space there was a curtain of red sparkles and a band drawing people in like pied pipers.

“Yo, bella signora?” I turned, expecting to see Feli’s smiling face. Instead, Romano stood there with a hand outstretched. “They say you’re not half-bad at dancing. Wanna prove it?” He pushed off the wall and started walking toward the entrance, hands still stuffed in his pockets.  Feli bounced in front of me, smiling brightly as the music picked up. Continuing to grin ear-to-ear, he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the entrance.


	37. Loud

The phone rang a few minutes past 8:30 a.m., just short of too-dang-early. I didn’t have any plans, thank goodness, and I’d be pretty convinced by my rolling stomach and raging headache to just settle myself on the couch and channel surf. I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that there was going to be a marathon of Property Brothers and I was pretty well settled on that. I’d been able to get down a couple Advil before the dulcet tones of Sinatra broke the peaceful silence. I nearly turned the phone off when I saw who it was.

But I knew the consequences if I didn’t answer.

New York didn’t take well to being ignored.

“Hello?”

“You sound like hell, Shelly! Shell Hell. Hell’s Bells. Shell’s Bells! Is that why Al calls you that?!”

I winced, drawing the phone away from my ear as I pressed the side of my head into the cushion. “Good morning to you too.” He laughed a little louder than I liked and I really, really had to fight the urge to hang up on him. Better John over the phone than John in person today. If I hung up, he would show up at my door. “What is it?”

“Just callin’ to see how you’re doin’. Heard you had a good time with Russia last night.” Flashes of the night flickered in my mind and I had to stifle a smile. That was enough to bring about a new wave of pain in my forehead that wrapped around my skull. “Ivan said you don’t have any constitution with vodka. Said I should check on you. He ordered you breakfast from down the street for me to pick up. For you. Because apparently I’m an errand boy now and not a State.” I felt a little nauseous at the mention of food. “Do you have something going on with Ivan?” I didn’t answer, still fighting off the urge to throw up. Johnny gasped dramatically. “YOU DO!”

“You’re an idiot.” I whispered it, wishing it didn’t sound so loud. “Ivan? Really?”

“Ouch! Here I am bringing you breakfast out of the kindness of my pure and innocent heart and you’re calling me names!”

“It’s 8:30, I have a hangover and you’re annoying me.” I groaned, shaking my head. “I had a lot of vodka.” I draped an arm over my eyes. This was all Russia’s fault. All his fault. I was going to blame him for all of this. And he was going to pay. He sent New York on purpose, that absolute jerk. I winced. Revenge. But first, “Okay. Alright, I’m sorry. Can you bring me some—”

“Advil? You want Advil from the Errand Idiot Man who is kind and loving and patient?” I tried not to ground my teeth when I hummed a ‘yes, please.’ “Sure thing, doll face! Anything for you! Want help getting revenge on Russia?” 


	38. Nightmares

The feelings weren’t mutual. I knew that and I respected it. What I felt for him…Well, it was powerful and real and more than I ever expected. More than I ever wanted, to be honest. It’d taken a pretty stern talk from New York and Tennessee to make me acknowledge my feelings. If not for that, I would have kept it to myself forever. I would have buried it. The Nations and States just watched as I pulled myself apart over it for the next year, until it seemed that Ivan had seen  _enough_. I told Arthur I loved him in the garden at America’s house.

“I don’t–I do not feel the same.”

Ultimately, it was Arthur’s decision. He felt nothing for me like that—just the care of a friend, he said. That was a couple years ago and I’d accepted it. I respected his reasons, even if he never said them out loud. So, I ate ice cream at Tommy’s house for a weekend, watched all the History Channel I could, and moved on as best I could. It sounds easier than it was, but that goes without saying. I really did sincerely love him and I would take the answer I was given.

The true point being: my love was unrequited. It is a difficult road to walk. Alfred tried to explain it as best he could understand. I asked him to leave it alone, but I could see his hurt, his hurt for me. And maybe even for Arthur. He was immortal, for all intents and purposes. I was going to die in less than a hundred years. Did I really want to waste my life away with him? Did I really want all the hurt that comes with being with someone like him?

Ivan told me— during a visit to Moscow, and over a few shots—that those were just excuses. “He does not understand what he is miss, dushenka.” Ivan had tried to be supportive to me, but anyone could see that he was livid at the whole exchange. He thought Arthur was being a coward. “Afraid to take the risk of loving you.”

“Maybe,” I acquiesced. “But it’s his call.”

After a while, I didn’t have to avoid seeing him at the occasional World Meeting that I would attend. I was more comfortable with the situation and my feelings steadily morphed into a more comfortable feeling of fondness—for the stubborn demands, the love of punk rock, the occasional accidental reaches for a sword. The dynamic steadily changed into a friend’s love because that was all it could ever be. And honestly, truly, I understood. One night, I remembered the pain of my mother after losing my father. I remembered how she’d mentioned once wanting so badly to join him. I remembered how she didn’t move on and how much she had cried. And I couldn’t—just _couldn’t_  ask that of him. Because really, that day would come. It—I would be a blink to him. No matter anything else, I couldn’t ask that he hurt forever just to indulge me.

I’d imagined that scenario so much that I dreamt of it, if our roles were reversed. The thought terrified me. He had every right to save himself from that pain.

Enough time passed that my friends stopped looking at me with pity. I began dating. If not for all of that I would not have met Ian. And Ian was one of the best men I’d ever met. He was a musician friend of Tommy’s, played in a band at one of the downtown bars. Tommy had set up the blind date and we’d dated for about six wonderful months before splitting. He moved to Los Angeles with his band, asked me to go with him, but…It didn’t feel right. Before he left, he attended my family Christmas and met Arthur.

“He’s a nice bloke, Michelle. A good match. Truly.” Arthur left not long after telling me that. I watched him leave from the front porch and stayed out there until long after the guests had left. Without getting mad, Ian sat me on the porch swing and told me that someday ‘the Brit’ will have to face his feelings. By that point though, I didn’t want that. It was scary to think of.

Because, if he loved me, Arthur would be hurt.

It was two years since my open-hearted confession, just a relatively normal Tuesday evening, when my doorbell rang. I’d been expecting Tennessee to come pick me up for a concert at the Opry, so I shouted through the door. “Just a minute! I just have to grab my purse and—” I snatched my cane from the sofa arm and check the door out of habit. My breath caught and I lowered myself down from my toes, staring at the door in silence. For a second, I rested my forehead against the wood before standing to my full height. I pulled the door open. “Arthur, hi! I didn’t know you were—”

“Are you… expecting someone?”

I stopped short, noticing that he was looking at everything but me. If had been less composed, he would have been scuffing his shoes on my doorstep. He attention flickered up to my skirt and then to my hair and back down to the ground again. A bit nonplussed, I shrugged.

“Uh, just Tennessee. We’re going to a show.” I stepped back, gesturing toward my living room. “Come on in.” He held up both hands, finally looking at me. His eyes went a bit wide and his lips pursed. He didn’t move. “Or not.” Seeing that he wouldn’t start on his own—there was that stubborn glint in his eyes again—I decided that the direct approach was the best bet. We always did best when we were honest. My hands went to my hips as I set my cane aside. “Why exactly are you—”

“My nightmares are usually about losing you.”

Moments like that are supposed to leave you breathless. They’re supposed to make your heart race with just awesome love can be and…It didn’t feel that way. As I looked out at Arthur, seeing the darkness under his eyes and the set of his shoulders, I didn’t feel a wave of true love. I felt pity and fear. I felt the weight of what he was saying weigh on my shoulders as well. Because, with the look he gave me, I knew that I couldn’t protect him from this anymore than I could help myself. It was wholly unbelievable—mortal and immortal. What he was saying—it was just the start.

He stepped forward, seeming to gain some sort of courage. “Every time, I lose you to all manner of things: attacks, sickness, time. It…It is terrifying.” I took a step back, not quite sure what to do. There was the mind and the heart. When I started to say something, anything to get him to rethink, he shook his head. “Just give me a moment to say my peace. Then…” He sighed, looking to the ground again. “I…I was not wholly truthful when I—I only–I don’t know what to do, Michelle. For all my years, I don’t know what to do.” Arthur looked to me again, looking lost and just as afraid as I felt. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know either.” I ran my hand through my hair and rested my weight on my good leg. “I don’t know either, Arthur.” Trying to keep a hold of my senses, I looked out over his shoulder into the night. “I have the same dreams though. Most of them are about losing you too.” I glanced to his face and he held my gaze. Neither of us moved. Neither of us knew where to go from here. Because the reality was still there regardless and both of us knew…


	39. Mortality

There was a plant on the floor inside the front room, just barely in the sunlight of summer. She had not moved it. That hibiscus flower was dying, shriveling up in the shade. When he had arrived, he had thought that perhaps he had arrived too late. A grim sort of quiet settled over the house. All the rooms were darkened and the air was still and stale. It seemed somehow wrong for a home that once held such joy. Some time ago, his fellow embodiments—of national ideals and identities—would come to visit her. In her old age, she had become less and less mobile. In his culture, it was custom to take care of the elder generations, to show them honor. No such ideals were imbedded in America’s culture, and he could see that in the stillness of her house.

“Of all the faces I never expected to see.”

China stepped into the room, hands held behind his back as he moved. She was settled back into stacked pillows. He could see similarities to the woman he once knew in the withered face that watched him. Her lips quirked into a smile.

“Told you I was dying, didn’t he?”

“He said you wanted to see me.” China walked as carefully as possible, cautious not to disturb her peace. Despite the staleness of the rest of the house, her room was something very different. It was bright with sunlight filtering through the light cream curtains. It was warm and inviting. “Why do you want to speak with me?”

“You’re the oldest of them. We’ve never had the best relationship.” Two reasons he was not overly impressed with. He had postponed his flight back to Beijing to indulge America’s demands. She seemed to sense his irritation and her thin, gnarled finger pointed to the nearby chair. As he approached, he noticed it was terribly worn and threadbare. Well-used. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to make amends. I just wanted to talk.” She watched him as he sat, seeming to observe the stiffness of his back. “Did I ever tell you that your Opening Ceremony was beautiful? The one in 2050. I thought it was one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen.”

That surprised him. Very rarely had she ever complimented him. He shook his head, not quite used to being so uncertain. Even for all his politeness to a woman at the end of her life, he couldn’t help the expression on his face. The slightest scrunch of his nose. Of course, she noticed and laughed lightly, glancing away and around the room.

“I barely remember it now. It was so long ago.” Her attention seemed to catch on a picture that hung on the wall. He followed her eyes. No matter how well he knew her after all these years—which was distinctly less than many of the others—China had a very difficult time accepting her as an elder of her kind. “America keeps trying to find ways to ‘fix’ me. Russia has not given up with his quest to find a cure.” Her expression was a kaleidoscope, and China felt a bit ill that he recognized facets in it.

“How long?”

She actually smiled at that. “Not too much longer now.”

A young woman from his childhood with a beautiful voice. An elderly gentleman with a kind and giving heart. A wounded young warrior. A child caught in a war. An middle-aged woman who sat upon the throne. An inventor. A monk. A seamstress. So many times, he had seen the set of a face when it knows the end is coming. A sort of calm acceptance, a higher understanding of the world—or their part in it. Some did not die with such knowledge. Those that did were fortunate.

“We’re made to be disposable. It’s planned obsolescence—mortality. Isn’t it? We’re not built to last.”

“I would not know.”

“Yes, you would.” She looked to him again, a familiar set to her jaw. “You always made it clear to me. You always made sure I understood my place. You made sure I knew that I was disposable. I used to  _really_  not like you for it.” Was it commonplace to leave such an old woman on her own? How long had she been laying in that bed? China glanced around again, feeling as if he should expect a child or grandchild to come through the doorway. “You need better bedside manner, China. I’m a dying woman.”

“Where is New York?”

“I kicked him out. He feels like he has to make it up to me. I got tired of it. Tennessee’s busy keeping him at bay.” She smiled. “I’m not dying today. It’s going to be a few more months, I think. That’s what the doctors say. I buy it.” He turned back to face her, really looking closely to see all the others again. He had seen enough death, in all manner of ways. Hers was perhaps the best way, old age. A full life for their kind. Gray hair and wrinkled skin. Some part of him still wanted that. “I didn’t want to talk to you about the meaning of life, Yao. It’s a little late for that and frankly, you would give me some…” She paused and readjusted in the bed so that she could breathe a bit better. “You would give me some smart ass answer.”

He resisted the urge to smile. Despite his dislike of her, “Me? I do not give smart ass answers.”

Dr. Michelle Daniels was known for many things throughout her years. She was a good friend to many Nations. She had lived with many for a time. And he had tried—really tried—to avoid most of it. She always brought trouble. However, there was one expression that he did admire. No matter how irritating he found her presence, her expressions—specifically this one—were something he appreciated. It was subtle, not as over the top as most American shows of emotion. She merely raised her brows, a show of disbelief.

He looked around the room again, finding bits and pieces of her life surrounding her. Photos from around the planet, different Nations hosting her for a time. Perhaps this was why England attended the meeting remotely? Faded pictures of her long-dead brother and sister, mother. Long-dead friends. Little trinkets sat here and there. A leather jacket lay across a chair on the other side of the bed. He recognized it. In the corner there was a folded up cot. He looked to her and noticed that there was a cell phone by her hand. It occurred to him then. The rest of the house was silent because all of the life was in this room.

Though he never could condone the importance she held to some of his fellow Nations—because it was foolish to get so close, he had to respect their connections. China had never been one to comfort others. He was harsh. He knew that. Harshness meant survival. It was too late for him to be any other way. Life was harsh. Why should he not be the same? Still, “You are not disposable.”

The old woman just smiled in return, nodding her head in thanks. 


	40. DWTS

Ok, so there was a plan. I had a plan. It was my first free Tuesday night in weeks. On most Tuesdays, I taught a workshop at the museum for grade school children until nine, but my assistant was sick and I cancelled. This gave me the evening to spend on my own. I stopped by the store and got the cheapest box wine I could find. I swung by the nearby Chinese place and got fried rice with two egg rolls I intended to eat  _all by myself._  I even stopped by McDonald’s for a sundae because I had zero self-control by seven in the evening. Corey was deployed. Jessie was in Colorado. Momma would be working late at the restaurant. A night to myself, to do whatever I wanted.

My plans were fairly simple from there in: curl up on the couch with the fluffiest blanket in the house, eat Chinese food, drink wine, and watch Dancing with the Stars.

I was so  _excited_  about it, too. It was the TV-themed night—one of my favorite themes possible for the show. I was going to enjoy  _every moment_  of it. It was nearly time. I had settled onto the couch, pulled the faux-fur blanket over my legs and positioned the plate on my knees when the doorbell rang. For a second, I just sat there thinking that if I just ignored them long enough that they would go away.

My head fell back onto the cushion behind me and my eyes closed.

Then, the bell rang again.

Groaning, I sat my plate on the end table and struggled to get my expertly ( _perfectly_  tucked in) legs free from the blanket. I actually whined.The bell rang again—this time with a tune. It wasn’t any particular song, just generally obnoxious and I warily freed myself at last. Glancing through the peep hole, I could see two blond guys waiting. One was patient a couple steps back, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. The other was relentlessly pressing the doorbell. Two guesses as to who that would be. “You better be here to tell me that you’re going home!”

“Why would we say that when we came to see _you_?” Alfred’s voice grated and in the living room I could hear the theme music beginning and the crowd cheering. Sighing, I pressed my forehead to the door. Now I was never going to get my peaceful night in. It was a wash. I tried not to make another whining sound, resisting the urge to stamp my foot. “LET US IN! LET US IN!”

Growling in frustration, I unlocked the door and started walking back to the living room. I didn’t even wait to welcome them inside. I could hear the front door open as I sat back down. “—may be busy, ya know.” At least Matt sounded guilty. Alfred sped into the living room and stood right in front of the television, obviously trying to gain my whole and undivided attention. I deadpanned, staring up at him. Was that an Alabama sweatshirt? I recoiled. “Al—”

“Aren’t you happy to see us?” His voice sounded shrill and I just raised my eyebrows at him, pulling the blanket back over my legs. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed one of the other blankets that sat on the back of the couch and threw it in Matt’s direction. He muttered a ‘thank you’ and settled in without further comment. Clearly, he could tell I was hardly in the mood. Alfred flailed to regain my attention. “Is that Chinese? Why’re you eatin’ that?” He turned and looked at the TV before spinning back around again with wide eyes. “It’s DWTS!” Without another word, he walked past the couch and kicked off his shoes as he went. “Heck yeah! Forget all the other plans. I love this show!”

I could hear him rifling through the cabinets. On the screen, the Muppets were introducing the show. The women were starting to dance. “What were the plans?” Matt shrugged, unfolding the blanket and settling into the sofa. “Why in the world are you here? Not that I didn’t miss you.”

“World Meeting in Washington this morning.” His attention was on the screen. “It’s TV night!”

America slid back into the living room like in Risky Business. Something flew over my head and nearly hit Matthew in the face. He snatched it out of the air before it struck home. Alfred flew to the recliner and perched himself there, looking excitedly toward the screen. “Bindi and Derek all the way!”  I couldn’t help but snort. “Ya know Australia records every show with his princess on there? Heck, dude practically memorized the jive dance. He sucks at it though.”

“Like you’re any better,” Canada murmured. I laughed, shaking my head. He cut me an amused look, opening the bag of potato chips. “So does your mother just keep these on hand now?”

They were reviewing the previous weeks’ dances, so it was fine to talk. “Pretty much. One of us always makes sure to get extra snacks because y’all have some really bad habits.” Seeing Matt’s look, I amended, “America has a really bad habit of showing up without announcing himself. Just appears out of nowhere. No warning. He actually got mad at me two months ago because I went to Mississippi for a week without telling him.”

“You disappeared! For a week! To go to a sorority party or whatever!”

“You just showed up here without warning anyone!”

“Carlos is up,” Matt interceded. Peace somewhat settled for a while. Alfred was munching on his assortment of cookies, cold hotdogs, and chips. Every now and again, to my complete and utter surprise, he’d come out with some critique of the dancing. He was particularly riled with—for whatever reason—Nick and Sharna’s waltz. As soon as they started, he started mumbling under his breath. Canada cut me a look, popping a chip into his mouth. “They’re doing fine, Al.”

“He’s too tense!”

“It’s a Viennese Waltz, America.” I shushed him with a wave of my hand. After all, it was a Downton Abbey themed dance. If I didn’t shush him now, he’s go off on some rant about England having terrible TV shows out of jealousy. I wondered if he was harder on Nick because he was more familiar with him. After all, I’d seen a Nsync CD in America’s car last time I visited Washington. “Give them a chance.”

“He’s overthinking every dang move. Sharna can only do so much.”

“It’s a hard dance! Of course he’s struggling!” Finally the dance concluded. America buried his head in his hands. I rolled my eyes, scooping up my final spoonful of rice. “Have you ever danced Viennese before?” Alfred turned to me and glared, catching my tone. He obviously didn’t appreciate my doubt. The waltz really didn’t feel like his kind of dance, honestly. Jive, sure. Swing, obviously. I looked back toward the screen and saw some commercial about Taco Bell or whatever. There was a click and I turned to see America setting all of his snacks on the floor. He stood and pulled his phone from his pocket “What’s up?”

“Got my own style of Viennese Waltz, thanks.” My jaw dropped and I heard Matt stifle a laugh. He rapidly tapped on his phone until some unrecognizable music started playing.  “Matt, up!” I laughed at Canada’s expression before he crossed his arms in an X. “Seriously, bro? She’s doubting my dancing skillz. Have my back, dude!”

“I have your back through everything, America. All the time. But I’m not dancing with you.” Matt prodded at my thigh with his bony toes. “Michelle can dance with you. I saw her dancing with New York a few months ago.” I glared, just barely controlling myself enough not to bare my teeth. Alfred grinned, walking to stand in front of me.

“Don’t you  _dare_.” Even as I warned him, he had ahold of my arm and began dragging me up off my comfy couch. Sighing, knowing that I wouldn’t win (and also knowing that it was the only way to get him to let me be for the remainder of the show) I stood up and put my hands on my hips. “I only know the international style—I’m a beginner at that! Viennese was never—” He ignored me, laughing at the dramatic way I let my arms fall to my side.

“Payback for thinking I can’t dance.”

“I know you can dance! I’ve seen you do it!”

“So, what? Austria’s a better dancer than me? What about Italy?” I raised my brows at that while he tossed his phone to Matt. “Play the third one down.” A hand went to my waist in a standard hold and the other took my hand and lifted it up. “Don’t worry about your leg, okay? I got ya.” I grimaced as we got into stance. I leaned back and tilted my head. “See what Nick was doing was this.” The grip on my waist got tighter and I winced a bit, seeing how uncomfortable it was. The grip eased and his hand went flat. “Mirror me. Ok?” Matt started playing the music, a tune I didn’t recognize.

“I can’t do this as well as I used to,” I muttered as we went into the first movement. “So… your point was—” I spun me and I struggled a bit with the smoothness of it but was able to get back around, setting my back leg out. I was swept immediately into a dip. Never once was there a syncopation, everything went smoothly from one movement to the next and his hands never once became tighter. “Okay, alright. I get it. You can dance and I shouldn’t have doubted you.” He snorted a laugh, sliding into another swirling movement. We almost caught the end table.

How many times can one say that they have waltzed in their living room in their yoga pants with their homeland?

“Your sweartshirt sucks though.”

Alfred outright laughed, the sound seeming to make the house shake. “Told you she would notice, Canadia!” Finally, he ended the dance and gave me a self-satisfied grin. “You’re not half-bad at that. But can you do this?” I had failed to notice that the show was back on. “GDFR” was playing and I heard the sound getting louder, looking to Canada for the source. Matt held the remote. He laughed and shrugged, bouncing to the song as it got progressively louder. Dramatically, Alfred started mirroring the moves of the guys on the screen. I stared, caught completely off-guard by the change. My attention skittered to the screen, walking backward until I sat on the sofa again.

I couldn’t take it anymore and collapsed back into a fit of giggles. “What the hell are—Ah! Don’t ever do that again!” He laughed, losing his concentration for a second before catching his sweatpants at the wrong angle. In the next second, he was in a heap on the floor. It sounded as if a bomb went off. The house quaked for several seconds. I wondered, if vaguely, what happened nationally if the Nation busted it trying to do the ‘sexy worm’ move. Thank goodness it didn’t work like that.

Alfred was still in a heap on the floor, laughing his ass off. Canada hummed, “It’s going down for real.”

I snorted.

Sitting up, America held his stomach with one hand and straightened his glasses with the other. “Heya, Michelle! Shelly! I couldn’t help but notice! Do you got a crush on one of the dancers?” My mouth opened and closed, completely stunned by the question. He stared up at me curiously, grinning like a lark. “Ah! You do!” When I didn’t respond, he got up from the floor and raced to the sofa, squeezing into the space at the end. “Spill! Dish! You think their gorgeous! You wanna date them!”

“You’re an idiot.” I responded blandly. It was best not to give him ammunition. “I’ve met smarter sandwiches.”

He prodded my shoulder. “Really? Where? I’ll fight ‘em.”

Canada started to laugh, really and truly laugh. It eventually got to the point that he was doubled over. And that, honestly was probably the hardest I had ever seen him lose it. And I couldn’t help but smile. Then, he snorted. I lost my control. America lost his. It was a cascade from there. We didn’t end up watching the rest of the episode, truth be told. Nothing quite went to plan. America demonstrated that he could do other dances, thank you very much. And, thankfully, neither of them remembered to ask who I had the crush on in DWTS. Small wonders, right? Small wonders.


	41. Shells

It was a chilly night in late December. The city was just ramping up for Christmas. On the radio, old classics were new. John had tucked my gloved hand into the crook of his arm, nodding his head to the people we passed as if he had always known them. I’d noticed a couple weeks ago, after a walk in Times Square, that Johnny knew practically everyone in some way or other. An impossible feat, but he assured me that he tried to have a six-degree connection with everyone in his city. ‘His city,’ were his exact words. Maybe that was just his arrogance talking, but when I saw the familiar smile of an elderly gentleman as he tilted his hat to us, I believed it. New York tried to know them, even if from a distance.

“That’s Cecil—you know Mrs. Rutherford? He’s her husband’s cousin. Owns a butcher shop in Queens.” He continued to walk, gesturing with his other hand. “His barber does Glenn Miller’s hair.” I perked up, smiling at the reference of my favorite musician in this decade. John looked over at me and grinned. “Speaking of which, doll face, I figure it’s about time to end the suspense, right?” He stopped at the corner of May Street, letting me step away. He shrugged his shoulders a bit, stuffing his hands into his blazer pockets. Steam was rising from the grates in the sidewalks. I glanced around, noting that we were just across from Pennsylvania Station. Couples—young and old—walked this way and that, most congregating half a block down, cars pulling past to the front door. The sight of it was almost stunning. “I got ya to get all dolled up tonight because I got a surprise for you.”

Dolled up was one way to put it, certainly. I’d been told this afternoon that I had to dress “real nice” because we would be going out. Had it been any other day of the week, I might’ve simply pulled my hair into a French braid, pulled out my nice skirt and shoes, and let it be. But, it was a Saturday. I had all the time in the world after finishing my early morning grading session. And, for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself. Just this once. So, I set to heat-curling my hair and arranging it in victory curls.

Dawn, one of my fellow teachers, taught me how. Said that I needed it in my repertoire. She said that any woman worth her salt knew how to do that style. I didn’t pick it up well, but I’d been able to pull together some pathetic imitation.

“So…why do you think we’re here, doll face?”

I glanced around, looking at the station and then down the block. Pennsylvania Station was— _Pennsylvania!_ Gasping, I raised my hand to cover my mouth and rising to my tiptoes to look over Johnny’s shoulder. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. “You’ve got to be—Johnny, are you serious?” He laughed, the sound reminiscent of my few interactions with Alfred. Nervous energy flooded my chest and trailed down to my feet. “Are we really?” He stepped forward and offered his arm again, winking. A bit numb, I reached forward and took it as he guided me down the sidewalk. “Are you serious?”

“It feels great to catch you off-guard, Shelly.”

“I’m stunned.” I could barely breathe out of excitement as we arrived to the back of the crowd. People were talking excitedly, practically chirping in the cold air. Nice cars stopped and released their occupants. And I couldn’t quite believe that I was there in the midst of it. “How did you pull this off?” He just grinned in response, gesturing for me to enter in front of him. “Johnny, how—”

“John Jay Jones as I live and breathe!” A man appeared out of the crowd, his cream-colored suit off-set by an emerald tie. Immediately, he shook New York’s hand, a wide smile on his face as he glanced at me. “Brought a fine dame with you then? Nice to meet you, ma’am.” I nodded and smiled, otherwise unsure how to respond. “We’ve got your seats all ready for you. You’ll like them, I think. Up in the terrace you can see everything.” He turned to me again. “Forgive me, ma’am. I’m Alan. You can just say I have friends here at the Rouge.”

He was gone in the blink of an eye, disappeared back into the crowd. It did seem though that he left a trail in his wake, one we were meant to follow. The crowds parted and we stepped inside. A man took my coat, gently smiling at how flustered I got when I accidently dropped my evening bag. My cheeks were well and truly flushed by the time John had returned to my side a moment later.

“How in the world did you pull this off?”

“You heard Alan. Friends. Alan owed me a favor and I have something like a forever-eternal season pass here. I can see shows any time I want, no matter how sold out they are.” We walked up the stairs, red carpet seeming so incredibly new that I could hardly believe that it had been there for years. The decorations were so classic and elegant. And I felt, for the first time in a very long, long while, excited to be here. There were so few things that truly, truly brought me joy in this time and place. No matter how hard that struggle got though…”Figured you could use with a pick-me-up. What with Christmas coming up, it’s gonna be hard.” He was right. I was already struggling with homesickness. The holidays only made that feeling worse. John stopped at the door to what I assumed to be the terrace Alan had spoken of. “Merry Christmas, Michelle.” Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to my temple. He pulled back and smiled, jerking his head toward the chattering performance space.

He pulled me to a table in house right, between two pillars. With both hands, he guided me into a seat nearest to the ornate railings. The chairs were beautiful carved and polished wood. Palms sat next to each of the columns. The entire space felt as if it has been cut from some Italian venue and dropped in the middle New York City. It felt surreal as I watched men and women flood into the room. I knew it was sold out, filled to capacity, just like every other Glenn Miller performance since I had arrived in 1940. There was a large dance floor, where young men and women were preparing to dance the night away. Some women had pin-curls. Some wore light colored suits while others were in bright red. I was mesmerized by the sight of it all.

“John, is this the wonderful Miss Daniels you’ve so been bragging about?”

I turned and saw a woman not much older than myself looking down at me with a smile that commanded attention. Immediately, I rose and extended my hand. “Nice to meet you…”

“You can call me Susie. I’m this cad’s sister.” I could see the resemblance, certainly. Blonde hair set into beautifully done victory curls, a bright and beautiful smile that seemed to capture her whole personality. It was the green eyes that caught me off-guard. Arthur’s eyes. “The dress suits you. I thought it would.” I looked down at the slightly more formal suit, remembering that they had asked her to buy me clothes when I first arrived. “He might say that it was his connections that got us in tonight,” she murmured conspiratorially as she undercut herself into the seat beside me while John squawked. “Really, it was my even better connections.” She seemed to catch the attention of someone on the dance floor and waved. “Then again, Johnny does have some rather formidable friends.”

“Like knowing the whole band!” John argued back as he sat on her other side. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight, Susie!” He forced a smile. “Good to see you too.” I watched in amusement while he crossed his arms and sat back. “Just sos you know, we’re dancing. You’re gonna have to find another partner.”

She stared at him for a second, painted lips pursed. After a moment, she shrugged. “Convenient, since I brought George with me.” I stifled a laugh at New York’s dumbstruck face. “Honestly, John, you cannot expect us all to miss such a performance. Everyone else may be content listening on the radio, but I’m not.” She glanced to me. “Besides, Michelle here needs some companionship outside of yourself. Someone with a tad more class.” I gave up trying to hide my laughter when John’s mouth opened to respond, but he instead just thought better to shut it.

“Don’t encourage her, Shelly.” John frowned, eyeing both of us with suspicion. “So much for a fun night out! You’re both gonna gang up on me. I can feel it.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” George interrupted as he arrived to the table, sending me a polite smile as he sat on John’s other side. New York shot him a surly stare before focusing petulantly on the dance floor. “Nice to see you again, Michelle. You look nice. I hope that the school year is going well.”

“Oh yes. The students are a handful, but we’re making progress. Nice to see you again, George.” It was idle chitchat, but it was something to keep me distracted from my excitement. Though, if anyone could see me, they could probably tell that I was on pins and needles. My knee was bouncing and I tried to hide it. Ladies, during that time period, were held to strict manners. I was violating at least three as I lowered my crossed knees to cross my ankles. I saw Susie—New Jersey—smile a bit out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve heard that tonight’s going to be broadcast live? Is that right?” Before anyone could answer, the whole room erupted into applause. I rose to my feet, watching as the band filed onto the stage.  

[“Want to dance to the first song, Shell?”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DtsRFtFvZ0AA&t=ZjM0YzAxNWI5ZmI5N2M4MjkyOGVjOWJhYWMzYjkwNjI0ODMyODI0ZSxpZzhhSWxqUQ%3D%3D&b=t%3A3YAK8LezQSzQSfMefJZXSA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fcultureandseptember.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F137059622674%2Fcmere-gimme-a-hug-writers-preference-have-a&m=1) (1)

I turned to find John at my shoulder. Him and Susie had switched places while the band got into position. A few moments later, Glenn Miller himself walked to the center of the stage. I smiled larger than I had since arriving here, thoughts of my grief and homesickness were pushed to the back of my mind. I was struck with one thought: this was a once in a lifetime opportunity I was being given. Despite the fact that I could still hear the whispers of guilt—of blood and war— I still knew that I had to take the chance. John held his hand out to me and I took it.

As the band played the first few notes, a slow swaying beat, Johnny led me down the stairs of the Café Rouge to the dancefloor. Slumber Song, I recognized. A voice spoke the introduction of the broadcast, but I was too caught up in the moment to hear much else. John playfully spun me around, into the crowd of young New Yorkers. “It’s good to see you smiling, doll face.” He spun me back into him and swayed. I easily followed along, familiar with the simple steps.

We were in the center of the crowd by the second song, each doing variations of the same swaying step. I caught sight of a spectacled man playing saxophone at the far end of the brass. When a solo took hold, there were shouts of excitement in the crowd and from the band. Johnny laughed taking me through a few quick, smooth turns before settling again into a sway at the far corner of the dancing crowd. “Of all the place I ever expected to be…” I didn’t finish my thought, shaking my head in sheer disbelief. “Dancing to Glenn Miller was never one of them.” I tried to catch sight of the man again on the stage.

“Got a crush, Shell?” Johnny baited with a mischievous grin. There was another whoop from the crowd.

How could I tell him that the very same performer up there playing his heart out would disappear in the war? I couldn’t, so I just settled for a noncommittal shrug. I’d look even crazier if I in some way said, “Tell him ‘Don’t fly over the English Channel—no matter the reason!’” So I focused my attention on the rise and fall of the music, keeping every emotion other than elation at bay. Because if I kept focusing on the negatives I was going to end up killing myself.

But the guilt of knowing his fate was resting heavy on my chest throughout the rest of the song.

I knew I would have a nightmare about it tonight.

I knew that better than I knew my own name at the moment.

The nightmares always came.

When the song ended, I stepped away from Johnny and he gave me a bright grin. He did something of a bow, an action one might’ve suspected came from an earlier century. “Thank you for the dance.” I gave him a nod and started to circle around the crowd before he could say anything more. I was halfway up the stairs when a hand caught mine. I schooled my features before I turned to face him again.  Johnny staring up at me with narrowed eyes. “John—I’m sorry. I can’t—”

“Helpless,” the voice of the singer crooned. I jolted, looking out at the band and the crowd.

Johnny continued to look at me, charged blue eyes seeming to scrutinize everything, from my hair to my shoes. The mask was long, long gone. He was using all of his years to try and understand me. After a long moment, his attention settled on my face again. “C’mere, Shelly.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me to the back of the terrace, away from the otherwise distracted crowds. His hands came to rest on my shoulders. “Gimme a hug.” I shook my head, not comprehending. “Lord knows you need one. Hug like you can actually give it all to me, whatever it is. And when you’ve got it all out, Shelly…When you think you can keep it at bay again, for a night, we’re going back on that dance floor until the band leaves the damn stage.”

I thought about his words for a moment before surging forward to wrap my arms up under his shoulders, hooking them and bracing myself to him. I put all the force I could into the embrace, closing my eyes and just appreciating the closeness of someone else. John sighed, gently returning the hug. I tried to force every bit of those emotions into it: the grief, fear, guilt, hopelessness. And the love. Because, for the first time since I arrived here, I realized that I loved someone here.

And that was Johnny.

Because, despite it all, he was doing his best.

So, when I pulled away, I set a kiss to his cheek and smiled. The band continued to play in the background and I could see the figures of Susie and George watching from the table. And, I thought randomly, that I was so incredibly fortunate. “Thank you, John. For everything.” He winked, raised my hand in his, and gestured toward the swaying crowd. “For being my family here,” I elaborated.

He nodded, “Forever, Shells.” The band swept into an upbeat piece, seeming to whip the crowd into a frenzy. A spark of humor and energy alit his eyes once more. “C’mon, Shelly! I bet I can get you to lindy hop!” When I was being pulled toward the dance floor again, I nearly voiced my doubts. I never danced like that in public! We passed a laughing pair of States. “You dance great at home, Shell! Let’s show these kids how it’s done. C’mon!”


	42. Words

I stumbled into him by accident, not really paying attention to where I was going as I set out the town to try on the back of the chair. It was only a moment that skin touched skin, my bare shoulder and the thin layer of fabric brushing against his (pale, pale, pale) bare chest. He froze up, going rigid as I pulled away and fell into the beach chair by Hungary, who was sipping at her margarita and smirking around the straw.

“Use your words, Gilbert.”

She tried to affect a bored tone, but it hardly worked. She sounded like she wanted to start cackling. The situation was just too…ridiculous. It was hard to keep a smile off my face as he tried to work through it, face changing colors like a kaleidoscope. For all his brash loudness, rivaling or surpassing even Alfred at times, Prussia seemed to have one incredibly surprising weakness.

His jaw worked and his face became incredibly red before finally, he let out an offended squawk and spun around, throwing an arm over his eyes. I just laughed, shaking my head. Hungary was doubling-over in her seat. His other arm went to giver his bare chest like a blushing maiden. I snorted. “What’re—What’re you wearing? Mein Gott! Cover up, woman!”

That weakness?

The female anatomy, surprisingly.

With a slight uptick to my lips, I looked over to see Hungary shrugging out of her cover-up. Just to make him more uncomfortable, I figured. “It’s a swim suit…” And it wasn’t like he had actual contact with anything. On top of that, it was a mere second that I even made contact with him. Though I wanted to burst out laughing at the poor guy, I instead waved at the new arrivals—knowing that it would be just a few moments before America cannonballed himself into the ocean and all sense of peace left.

Glancing at Prussia again, I was surprised to see that he still hadn’t gotten over the shock. He was still covering his eyes, only now and then glancing down at me and Hungary as we sat on the beach chairs. “Gilbert, this is normal nowadays. You know that right? Elizabeta’s even wearing a two piece.”

The great Empire of Prussia…felled by too much skin?

He barked a nervous laugh, scratching at the back of his head. “Of course I know that! The Awesome Prussia is hip and cool with all this chest-baring shenanigans!” Mhm, I nodded, as I settled back into the seat. “Just because I have a healthy respect for women doesn’t mean that I don’t know what a swimsuit is! Or that I don’t have an appreciation for—” I opened my mouth in surprise before hearing Hungary laugh. “I’ve seen tons of sexy women in less! Much less! All less! You are in no way sexy! I just never thought that you had—that—DAMN IT!”

“Yo, Shells by the Seashore! That your new swimsuit? Looks good!”

“We bought it for her in Milan!” The Italys waved as they made their way down the boardwalk. Romano even looked happy, which was a rather rare occurrence, given his usual dour expression. It was about to be a chaotic beach party rather than a relaxing weekend away, as Elizabeta had sold it twenty-four hours ago. Smiling, I turned to where Prussia stood with his back to us. My suit was the most modest one on the market that Romano seemed to be able to stomach. It even had a skirt.

“Let’s just pretend that this never happened!” Prussia stomped his foot and crossed his arms, storming away like a child.

Hungary hummed a laugh and I couldn’t help but deliver the final crushing blow. It was too good of an opportunity, too good of an opening. “Pretend what never happened, Gilbert?” I shouted over the waves. He walked faster, trying to get past the newly arrived Nations before I claimed victory. “Pretend what never happened? Do you mean—” He screamed.

Alfred jogged up, setting the four coolers down onto the sad as he lifted his aviator shades. “What’s up with him? He looked like lobster. Did he forget sunscreen?” I snorted and shook my head, settling back down into my chair as Hungary handed me a drink with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously, what happened?”


	43. John

John hated to sit still. 

He lived every day with purpose, with vigor, and with so much damn energy that it sometimes drove him crazy. Maybe it was the constant ringing in his ears or the antsy tingle of his legs that kept him moving. Eh, he wasn’t too sure. Maybe it was still that anxiety that stayed with him after the Revolution. And besides, confined spaces were never really his thing. Not after the Civil War. Walking seemed to settle his mind a bit. If he could just put one foot in front of the other, then things would be okay.

Sometimes he would find himself in random parts of the city—in Manhattan, Soho, China Town, Harlem, Queens. Anyway from Brooklyn and his too-quiet house. People knew him all around. A firehouse in Queens and a jazz joint in Harlem, a café in Soho. Down in FiDi, he often sat himself on one of the concrete benches and stared out at Lady Liberty, eating a half-assed hotdog from one of the vendors. He couldn’t sit there for long, but he could wait just long enough to see a million tourists snap pictures with a hazy figure on the horizon.

He really couldn’t say that he was a  _nervous_ walker. Hell, Johnny really didn’t think much when he was walking. Maybe that was the point of it. But he didn’t like how empty his townhome seemed. He really couldn’t understand why he had that feeling—like something or someone was missing. Just, every now and then, he’d get a smell of something like perfume. And then, without grabbing a coat or nothing, he’d just take off. 

He’d walked to Dino’s first, because that was the usual haunt. 

And Dino knew what he was and Dino was cool with it.

But then the same damn thing happened t _here_. 

Something was missing. A slice of pie or the warmth of someone in the booth with him. Something was wrong there too. Something seemed to be wrong just about everywhere. So Johnny booked it out with a shout of “on my tab” as the bell over the door jangled. He huddled in his coat, collar turned up against the wind, as he went for another walk—ending up by the water somehow. The wind was so strong there, that he really couldn’t think about anything but the sting of his cheeks.

After the third decade, New York had just come to accept it as the normal course of things. His house felt too empty. Okay, most States probably felt that way at some point or other. He’d confided it to Delaware once, earning him a long-winded speech about how “settling down doesn’t prove your worth, but I will support you no matter what.” All that typical big brother talk. Johnny didn’t want to settle down— It was the 1960s. The last thing he wanted was to _settle down_. Not when everything was amping up. Especially with all the stupid shit everyone was doing. Settling down was the last thought on his mind.

After a while, he packed up and headed north. He didn’t remember a lot of what followed. A lot of travelling across his lands, a lot of not so legal stuff. Not just the confines of the city. Somehow, he arrived at a music festival and did maybe a few things that no one was going to let him live down.

He returned to NYC in the eighties to find so much changed since he left that it didn’t feel like he was seeing ghosts anymore. John set about falling into his old routines. Flashes of something—wants, wishes?—peppered his townhome, but New York just accepted them now. Dino’s son had revamped the place. Whatever the phantom smell was had left and Johnny finally felt like his home wasn’t as empty as it had been after the Great War.

You know, but things change, like they always do. He remembered her, remembered Michelle. After his fingers brushed that damn globe, he remembered everything. And suddenly, all those moments in an empty home made sense. Because, after just a year, it wasn’t just his home anymore. It was theirs.

Suddenly, all of those inklings that something  _wasn’t right_  were justified and meant something. Hell, it meant something a lot deeper than just Delaware’s stupid “settling down” rant. To hell with that, John would never settle down.

After it was all over, Johnny really didn’t know what to do with it though. 

Knowing how hollow everything seemed like after she left, even if he didn’t  _realize_  it at the time—since he couldn’t freakin’ remember her in the first damn place…

It seemed kind of like mourning. Even if he didn’t know what was what it was.

He’d been lonely, all that time. 

And it only just made sense.

But she didn’t remember. Not everything at least. And then she did, but only some things. It was still  _her_  though, and he didn’t feel quite so drawn to the streets anymore. And she’d come to stay with him. 

Johnny had wondered if maybe somewhere deep down she thought he was home just as much as he thought she was. He wondered if it was just instinct sometimes. Out of everyone, she chose him. Always, she chose him.

When he smelled a flash of perfume after stepping inside one evening, John hurried himself upstairs and found himself a little too nervous to open her door. He knocked, restlessly shifting from one foot to another. He was anxious, just to see her.

“It’s open.” Johnny stepped inside, finding Michelle perched on her bed with a book open on her lap. She gave him a curious look. She looked incredibly comfortable there, pajama already donned and hair already pulled back for the evening. He felt himself sink a bit. Ah, well. She couldn’t remember everything, right? “You have an okay day? You look worn out.”

“You,” he cleared his throat and walked to the window to peer out at the street. Anything to distract him from the little bit of disappoint that curdled in his chest. Of course she didn’t remember. Not like it was really that big of a deal. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“It’s _Thursday_.” When she didn’t respond, he turned a little and smiled a bit. No comprehension dawned and he felt a bigger bubble of disappointment rise. Every Thursday  _then_ , they would go out to eat—Diner Day, they called it. Some part of him felt like it was a tradition that needed upholding. Always pie. Always the same booth. Always the same tune on the jukebox. Always. “I can just—” He heard her gasp and he turned to find her struggling up from the bed as she rushed to grab her cane. “Hold up! What—Be careful, Shell.”

“Let me just throw on some jeans and we’ll go. They won’t care how I look anyway. Donny’s not gonna care.” She stopped and grinned, making his heart flutter and that bubble of disappointment disappear. “You’re not getting out of that pie you owe me.”

“That was eighty years ago!”

“Eighty-seven. C’mon!”

When John walked down the sidewalk that night, he wasn’t alone. 


	44. John II

He heard it all the time from the tourists. It went to both extremes in the bustling crowds of Times Square. “Who the  _hell_  would want to live  _here_?” A frantic young man would question his girlfriend as they tried to cross the street and were nearly struck by a cabbie. “Seriously, who would want to live here? It’s like everyone’s so rude!” They forget that most of the people in Times Square are likely not native New Yorkers, or are only there to work. They get lost in the throngs of people eventually, barely make it to their show, blame the city, and then take away that experience as the end-all-be-all of New York. Johnny saw it all the time when he chanced a journey to the bright lights for a show.

“Who the hell would want to live here?” He’d heard a middle-aged woman question as she looked around at the high rise buildings of the Battery, Freedom Tower on the horizon and Lady Liberty at her back. John sat back on the bench and lowered his sandwich, watching as the woman glanced around with her lip curled. He wondered what exactly she saw around her. The Hudson was sparkling, the sky sky was blue, there was a smell of good food in the air. She moved on with her wide-eyed, brightly smiling son in tow—a spark in his eyes that told John all he needed to know.

Or he’d catch a flight out of LaGuardia, sitting behind a couple of obvious Midwesterners who looked around at the scuffed floors and overly busy terminals and whisper to each other: “Who the hell would want to live here?” They’d see trash left everywhere, a stupid wait time, an even stupider airport layout and take it as The New York City Experience. After his flight was delayed because of a pothole on the runway, he couldn’t really argue their question.

LaGuardia was probably a bad example.

He became immune to the honking of cabs and the wail of sirens after only a couple years of the constant ringing in his ears. Sometimes, other States thought John was hard of hearing, but that wasn’t it. “Who the hell would want to live here?” South Dakota shouts over the honking nearby. John just shrugs and ignores the question. “Seriously, how do you have a population? Is it always like this?” He doesn’t bother to question how many people live out in the Middle of Nowhere, USA. Or how long it takes for them to get quality pizza, but whatever.

Johnny leaned against the cast iron fence on the Promenade, a coffee held between his palms. The wind was wild and would have messed up his— perfect— hair if he’d not dawned his Yankees cap before leaving the house. Across the river, the towers of Lower Manhattan were contrasted against a pretty spectacular sunset. Purples, oranges, reds setting off against the lights of the buildings. The water was reflecting city. Boats came in from their day or took people home. He’d had so many memories here, just in this one spot—so many wonderful and terrible things. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle, he could hear music playing—piano. Down the row, he could see some children playing. It wasn’t perfect or anything. Rent was too expensive. He knew he could be kind of a jerk sometimes. He wasn’t proud of a lot, but…John took a sip of his coffee and grinned, staring out at the brightening city as the sun sank lower behind it.

“Yeah, who the  _hell_ would want to live  _here_?”


	45. States

Sometimes, and it was very rare, Carolyn wished she could drink and actually feel the effects of it. The first time she’d felt the draw of alcohol was when Alfred—oh, so smartly—outlawed the stuff. She’d even helped some human traffic the stuff, knowing that it would piss off the powers-that-be. And now, South Carolina really wanted some of the stiffer stuff. Mostly because football fans could sometimes be real horses’ asses. Not all of ‘em. Some fans were as pleasant as a summer’s day and peachy-keen and all that, but some ruined the fun for literally everyone else.

Like these pricks.

These pricks were the reason that some people grew up loathing football as a sport.

She was wearing the typical Panthers jersey, jeans, tennis shoes. She wasn’t looking to impress no one, just ready to enjoy the sight of a Southern team beating the shit out of Colorado’s mess of over-amped hype. (Yeah, that’s right.) Colorado was still riding the wave of beating the Patriots, which honestly was kind of disappointing. She’d desperately wanted Colorado to lose. Nearby, Richard (dear old North) was bouncing excitedly on his heels. He’d made certain that he was sitting behind his own guys— “our guys,” he kept saying. Just like he always did. Then, these jerks came into view and the whole section of seats seemed to grow tense.

Most of the section of five or so rows were devoted to the Panthers. Pretty obviously.

The Broncos fans who had ended up in a sea of Panthers fans had been nice about it. It was still pre-game. And she made sure that the respect was returned. One Panthers fan—who’d been nice to everyone else around—had shot his mouth off at a man who was just holding his young daughter on his shoulders ahead of him. South Carolina set him straight and the ease of their section had returned.

Then these jerks charged in like they’re some sort of light brigade. “PANTHERS SUCK!”

A creative chant. 

Stuff of wit and miracles.

She saw Richard tense and Carolyn pivoted a bit to see the painted chests and signs. Obnoxious orange and blue. God, she  _really_  disliked those colors. Instead of positive, happy Brocos-supporters, these fans seemed to be just anti-Carolina and nothing else. Big difference. Respect. They were spouting stupid stuff— Cam Newton, and clutches, and whatever else they could think of while intoxicated, which wasn’t much. And North Carolina was growing tenser as he watched the sea of Panthers fans turn around to face the irritating jackasses. As the language got coarser and coarser as more and more alcohol was drunk, parents covered their children’s ears.

Carolyn wanted a shot.

“Knock it off,” the man who she’d spoken to before ordered. The guys only got louder and more raucous. 

“YOUR FOOTBALL TEAMS SUCK AND YOUR STATE SUCKS EVEN HARDER!”

Her eyes rolled and she sighed. Fine. “Hey!”

Carolyn wasn’t very large in stature. Hell, she knew she was short. “Small, but mighty.” Richard had said once before. “You got a lot of rage for someone so small,” he’d commented after the war. The benefit of being a State, maybe. She pointed her finger at the human idiots. It may not have been  _her_ football team, strictly. She didn’t have one in the NFL. And she couldn’t back only one of her college teams in good conscience, but…It was her  _brother’s_  team and damn everything, no one was going to take this from him. He’d been so proud of his boys making it. “You’re gonna knock it off. Or I’m gonna knock you out.” 

They bristled, puffing up like the proud and overly confident males they were. A couple laughed. Laughed! Like the  _idiots_  they were. She stood a little taller, narrowing her eyes as she felt Richard move at her back. He was probably worried she’d do something impulsive, which really wasn’t that far off the mark.

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT ‘CAUSE—”

“Dude, that’s—”

“Yo, Carolinas! I figured you’d be over here! You gonna fight some of Teller’s fans? Really?” Alfred was bounding down the steps, all smiles. All around the section, she could hear the whispers breaking out. So much for the low profile that Richard wanted… Alfred skidded to a stop and gestured widely to the dumbstruck fans. “You’d lose toe-to-toe with her, dudes. Act like adults and maybe she won’t relocate your nether regions to your foreheads.” America grinned at the confused looks they sent her. “Totally serious.”

“I could’ve handled them,” she muttered to him a few moments later as they reached the top of the stairs, moving to one of the private suites reserved for “us.” Alfred stopped and sent North Carolina an apologetic smile, scratching the back of his head. “Don’t look at him all guilty!” 

“You were gonna hurt humans because they said what?”

Carolyn’s mouth opened and then snapped shut, looking at Richard’s small smile. Growling out a sigh, she just shook her head and started walking. “I was just trying to–You know what? I don’t have to explain it. They were stupid anyway. I could really use a drink! Why the heck was this sponsored by Pepsi?” Richard raised his brows, stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and followed, shrugging his shoulders at South Carolina’s tirade. “And can we stop letting California host? Airfare costs a mint! And our football team doesn’t suck!” 

“No, they don’t.” Richard nodded in support and placation. Alfred sighed, bracing his hands behind his head. “And neither do I. Neither do you.” South Carolina just growled and threw her hands up in the air. 


End file.
